


A Demon In My View

by Statari



Series: A Demon [1]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Dubious Ethics, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Getting to Know Each Other, Imprisonment, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Obsessive Behavior, Possessive Jeremiah Valeska, Post-Episode: s05e07 Ace Chemicals, Resolved Sexual Tension, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-12
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:39:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27510130
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Statari/pseuds/Statari
Summary: Bruce Wayne saves Jeremiah Valeska from his own machinations.  With it being too dangerous to take Jeremiah to the police holding cells, Jeremiah is instead sequestered and he and Bruce slowly come to an understanding.
Relationships: Jeremiah Valeska/Bruce Wayne
Series: A Demon [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2028248
Comments: 35
Kudos: 87





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Neyiea](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Neyiea/gifts).



> I was convinced I could not love a Gotham character more than I loved Jerome... until I met Jeremiah. That eery, obsessive attachment combined with the Hannibal-esque drawl.... It hit me hard.
> 
> I was disappointed by the dearth of fics featuring either of them until I found Neyiea and she is amazing. Go read her fics! Leave lots of comments and share the Vaylene love.

It seemed impossible, but the dark hollows of Jeremiah’s cheeks had gotten deeper over the past few weeks. His pallor was unchanged. Having achieved a deathly paleness before incarceration, the lack of sunlight was unlikely to affect him. If anything, he was the most vibrant and alive of anyone in the city right now, despite the fact that he had been the bottom of an unused water cistern. 

His pale green eyes glimmered when he looked up. 

The urge to throttle Jeremiah started in Bruce’s hands. He could practically feel the thundering pulse slowing to a stop under his fingers, the way his body would begin to twitch and buck as oxygen deprivation started set in. Why should Jeremiah get to live, get to smile, get to scrape together even a small modicum of satisfaction out of life when so many could not? So many were dead.

Bruce clenched around the handle for the heavy, plate steel hatch. Expensive leather gloves with thick padding against the cold were the only things that kept his skin from breaking open. 

Water sloshed around from below as Jeremiah crawled off his only dry perch and slipped into the water. He stepped into the the hazy light directly beneath the opening. Jeremiah didn’t speak, only stared. Anticipatory. 

Open your fucking mouth and say something, Bruce thought viciously. 

He wanted Jeremiah to speak. He wanted Jeremiah to ask about Selina again, to try to goad him, and pick at his nerves. He wanted Jeremiah to do it because maybe this time, it would work. Maybe this time, if Jeremiah spoke, Bruce might finally react the way Jeremiah wanted him to. Maybe this time he could be pushed to far and drown Jeremiah in the murky water of this temporary prison. For Selina, for Gordon, for Doctor Thompkins. 

Face upturned, Jeremiah looked… reverent. Whatever he saw in Bruce as Bruce contemplated killing him, he liked and wanted more.

Vengeance soured in Bruce’s stomach. This was the darkness that lured in madmen like the Valeskas and Ra’s al Ghul and convinced them that he was one of them. Unlike them, Bruce was in control of it. He had worked far too hard. He hadn’t lost control over Jerome and he wouldn’t lose it over Jeremiah either. 

That’s why he wouldn’t be the one to speak first and prompt discussion. Discussion with a madman, a losing battle from the beginning.

Bruce grabbed the bag that Lucius had given him on his way out of the water treatment plant. It was a plain plastic grocery bag from a store that had been looted and burned to the ground months ago. Inside the bag there were only two items, two of their precious and dwindling supplies from the Wayne Enterprises helicopter. There was an old tupperware container of beans and a bottle of water. They’d all seen what Jeremiah could do given resources, no one wanted to give him the whole tin can and see if he was as creative as Jerome had been.

Bruce held the bag out over the opening and dropped it. It slapped the stagnant water at Jeremiah’s feet. Jeremiah didn’t reach out to catch it or even so much as look to trace its path. He was only fed once a day, he must be starving. So why was he staring up at Bruce like he’d never felt more satisfied in his life?

Shaking his head, Bruce levered the hatch to close it. 

“Thank you, Bruce,” he heard from below, like a benediction.

Bruce bit his tongue or rather than demand the bastard keep his thanks to himself. It would only start a conversation he wasn’t ready for. The lid slammed shut and the noise that echoed in the basement hurt his ears. He could only imagine what it must have been like inside the concrete box beneath it. He hoped Jeremiah’s ears bled as he jammed the lock back into place. He stared at the ugly blue paint before he stood. 

Wayne Enterprises owned the property. His parents had bought it a few years after the water treatment plant went defunct as part of an urban renewal project that had never reached fruition. The only things left inside the building were the massive steel pipes and pumps that were far too heavy to pick up and sell as scrap. Everything else had been picked clean long before all of this started. There was nothing to steal. A few blocks up river from the spill, its water was still clear but it was close enough that no one wanted to come near it for shelter. Empty, abandoned, and barely even noticed, it had seemed the logical solution.

Jeremiah Valeska had nearly died, falling into the vat of corrosive chemicals. But Bruce had saved him. It would have been easier to let him die. Jeremiah would have fallen and been eaten alive by his own schemes. A fitting end for the last of the Valeskas. 

It had been instinct, jumping forward and latching onto Jeremiah’s arm. The shock and fright on Jeremiah’s face when the railing gave out behind him made him look so much like the nervous academic pleading for help that Bruce couldn’t help himself. He’d had a hand around Jeremiah’s wrist and caught him dangling before he could think about it.

Gordon found them like that, locked in a standoff where Bruce could neither pull the man up nor let him go, even as Jeremiah encouraged him to. Jeremiah had soothed him at first, gently reassuring Bruce that he could do it. He’d been tempted to let go but couldn’t force his hand to unclench. 

After that, putting Jeremiah in a cell at the police station was entirely out of the question. If they actually planned on Jeremiah living long enough to stand a proper trial, they had find someplace else. Officers and criminals alike wouldn’t hesitate to kill him, except to devise an appropriate sounding torture. 

Feeding Jeremiah, keeping him hydrated, all of that was far less important than the many people who came to them for help, but they couldn’t just let him starve to death in a prison they created. He got the same rations as everyone else. It was a far kinder fate than anyone else would offer. He, Gordon, Lucius, and Alfred were the only ones who knew where he was and Bruce was the only one who could spare the time to feed him now.

Bruce swept past the enormous pumps lurking in the shadows and slid out the alley door. He locked up behind him and glanced up across the street at the empty windows. No one came through here except for Bruce and the rats.

A few blocks over, Alfred was waiting for him with his hands in his pockets. “How was it?” he asked.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Bruce growled. It was hit or miss, whether that type of thing actually worked to keep Alfred from prying. It was a hit this time, though, as Alfred fell into step without another comment. 

“Back to the clinic, then?”

Bruce nodded and started walking. There was a never ending list of things that needed to be done.

\-------------

By the time Bruce unlocked and lifted the hatch the next day, Jeremiah was already standing in the ankle deep water directly below, staring. Had he moved even once during the night and following day? Or had he stood inhumanly still, hibernating until Bruce returned? 

Heart racing, Bruce didn’t comment on it. He didn’t want to know the answer and told himself he didn’t care. Instead, Bruce uncoiled a length of rope and lowered the frayed end of it down into the cistern. It dangled straight down the length of Jeremiah’s chest but the man didn’t reach for it. 

Bruce growled impatiently, “The bucket.”

Jeremiah tilted his head, looking like he was searching for hidden meaning in those two words.

“The bucket!” Bruce yelled a little louder.. 

The corner of Jeremiah’s lips quirked up and he finally, finally, looked away. He looked instead towards one of the dark corners. “Aren’t you better than this, Bruce?” he mocked. “Cleaning up piss and shit from your own, personal prisoner?”

Bruce rubbed at his lips, the soft surface of his glove was grainy with rust particles. “Fine,” he snapped. “Have it your way.” Bruce had nearly pulled the rope up and out of reach before Jeremiah caught it. His hands were pristine against the grimy rope. 

“If you insist,” he purrs. “I do so hate to leave a mess.” His teeth were perfectly white against the red of his lips. 

Smugness radiated from Jeremiah as he tied the bucket to the rope and watched Bruce grit his teeth and haul it up. He waited with his hands folded behind his back while Bruce dumped it and gave it a quick rinse. He dropped the bucket back down into the cistern. Now empty, it bobbed on the surface. Jeremiah’s dirty dress pants were splattered with fresh wet patches. 

Jeremiah tilted his head to the side. “What have you brought me today, I wonder? I do hope its not more beans, they do not agree with me, as I’m sure you’ve noticed, and I confess, I’ve never been fond of them. Even my uncle couldn’t make such things palatable to me as a child.”

There were people starving all throughout the city. Jeremiah should be fucking grateful he gets anything at all. His eyes never left Bruce, clearly searching out his reaction to the drawling attempt at small talk. Bruce couldn’t respond because the only response would be in anger and it would only satisfy Jeremiah further, to hear the quaver in Bruce’s voice.

So Bruce took the only option left open to him.

He left.

If he happened to give Jeremiah a can of dog food for dinner the next day… well, at least it wasn’t more beans.

Bruce dedicated more of his time to patrolling the streets with Alfred, helping the nurses at the hospital, and talking with the refugees who just wanted to feel heard. In the evenings, he retreated to the library and read everything he could on a variety of subjects from environmental science to psychology. He spent so much of his time doing these things that there was no time left in the day to see to Jeremiah. It was simply how things worked out. He informed Gordon that he would be unable to attend to those particular duties. Gordon looked like he might suspect the real reason, but didn’t comment. Lucius was sent to feed Jeremiah and empty the bucket for the next few days.

But the next time Bruce went to check on the progress of cleaning the river, Lucius had trouble making eye contact. He did make eye contact, of course, but it was fleeting and shuttered. Already reserved, Lucius was practically shut off from the world and nearly too distracted to talk about the state of the water filters. He was a good man and would never complain, but that just made it worse.

The one thing Jeremiah Valeska wanted more than anything else was Bruce Wayne. By staying away and letting Lucius go in his place, Bruce was also letting Lucius bear the pointed focus of Jeremiah’s rage and disappointment. How far had Jeremiah dug into him?

Bruce’s selfishness brought this suffering on Lucius. If he could prevent this sort of thing from happening by putting himself in the firing line, so be it.

He took a small tin of canned corn and emptied it out into the tupperware container as a peace offering. He grabbed a bottle of water and made the walk from the water treatment plant to the old waterworks facility. It was a short but chilly walk. The weather was turning. 

Letting himself in, Bruce looked around for signs of disturbance. Nothing was out of place, not even the thin, transparent fishing line stretched across the doorways were still intact. Even still, he checked the shadows before going over to the hatch. He unlocked it, slid the bar out of the way, and opened the hatch. Bruce peered down into the murky water. It was perfectly still, no ripple or sign of movement. The furthest corner was too dark for Bruce to see clearly. 

Resigned to making the first move, he called out. “Jeremiah.”

Nothing at first, then, “Bruce.” It was a haunting hiss of sound from the corner. 

“I’m here,” Bruce said, even though it hadn’t been a question. 

Water sloshed and rippled out from the corner where Jeremiah had been hiding. Bruce sucked in a breath of shock at the dramatic change that had come over Jeremiah in the past week. He looked horrible. He was wet and bedraggled, his hair hanging in wild tangles across his face. His skin was marred with silt and mud, even that failing to cover up the bruised eyes and chapped lips. For the first time since his transformation, Jeremiah’s blood red-lips were actually covered in blood. Had he been chewing on them?

Despite all evidence to the contrary, Jeremiah looked utterly content. His eyelids fluttered, nostrils widening with every inhale.

“I knew you’d come back, Bruce.”

Bruce pursed his lips. “Did you have to take it out on Lucius?”

Rage flashed across his face, replaced quickly by irritation and then calm. “Of course I did. I needed to give you the right incentive to come back.” 

This was going to keep happening. For as long as Jeremiah was alive. And Bruce would never allow himself to be the one to kill him. He sighed. “Yeah, well, you got what you wanted. I’m here.”

He held out the grocery bag with it’s water and tupperware. 

“Since you’re here…” 

Bruce looked down. They made eye contact and then Jeremiah began climbing the large pipe that once served to pump water out of the cistern. Hand over hand, he climbed using the rivets and seams as handholds. 

“Don’t.”

Jeremiah giggled.

“Jeremiah, don’t!”

Reaching the top of the pipe where it curved and disappeared through the concrete wall, Jeremiah did stop. He perched on the pipe and leaned forward. He was still too far down to reach the hatch but they were nearly close enough to have a conversation without having to raise voices. 

“Since you’re here,” Jeremiah repeated, “I did have a question for you. Something has been bothering me for ages.”

“What is it?”

Jeremiah tilted his head and licked his lips, starting a bit of new blood oozing from his chapped skin. He inhaled a shaking breath. “Why’d you save me?” he asked.

Bruce blinked. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but somehow it wasn’t this. He couldn’t exactly tell a criminally insane psychopath that he had sworn not to kill. He might as well highlight his biggest weakness. Besides… that wasn’t quite the truth, was it? It might have been why he hadn’t let go of Jeremiah’s hand while he was dangling over the vat of chemicals, but it wasn’t why Bruce had leaped out to grab him. 

Jeremiah would see through anything less than the truth. Bruce didn’t even know what the truth was.

A question whispered at the back of Bruce’s mind, a teasing strategy that would buy him an out. He wouldn’t have to answer, at least not today.

“I’ll answer yours if you answer mine,” Bruce said.

Interest gleamed in Jeremiah’s eyes. Water dripped from the ends of his dark green hair and slid down his face in a poor mockery of tears. “Tit for tat,” he mused. “How ‘bout that?”

He glanced away, clearly considering if the trade off was worth it. Upon reaching his decision, Jeremiah stood up, balanced on the top of the pipe with the tips of his fingers anchoring him to the wall. “I do so want us to know each other better. Ask your question,” Jeremiah breathed.

“Why did you really lie about Jerome when you were kids?”

Jeremiah went as still as a statue.

Bruce had heard the excuse, that Jeremiah had been scared of Jerome and lied to get away. But that couldn’t be all there was to it. It couldn’t. If Jerome had really been that bad, why not send him away instead of Jeremiah? How had Jerome lived long enough to eventually kill his mother if his mother knew he was that bad? What happened to them back then that made them the way they had become? There were so many questions that all led him back to the one he asked.

It was pretty clear that Jeremiah didn’t have an answer ready for his question either. Bruce shrugged and swung the grocery bag of food over to Jeremiah, who actually caught it when it collided with his chest.

“See you tomorrow, Jeremiah,” Bruce bid in farewell, shutting the hatch.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys exchange more questions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a day later than I had wanted, but, I have the next chapter! Life has a way of beating up on you while you're already down. I'm sure Bruce and the Valeskas know what I mean. Enjoy!

“Why’d you save me, Bruce?” Jeremiah asked as soon as the hatch opened the next day. 

“Why’d you lie about Jerome?” 

Jeremiah growled in frustration, already sitting perched on top of the pipe near the ceiling of the cistern. He was looking better today, dry and somewhat groomed. His hair had been pushed back and tamed at least. He had cleaned his skin in the cistern’s water but cleaning with dirty water was hardly ideal. There was still a smudge of dirt near his temple. 

Bruce sat on the edge of the opening, allowing his feet to dangle inside, too far for Jeremiah to reach unless he jumped. It was a gamble, but one he prepared for by wearing a harness that tethered him up here, just in case Jeremiah tried to pull him off his perch. 

He’d see what Jeremiah did with this small amount of trust. 

Bruce tossed the grocery bag into Jeremiah’s arms for the second time. Jeremiah looked confused, clearly parsing out the change of sequencing in their interaction. 

“Go on,” Bruce said, waving at the bag.

He absolutely did not hold his breath in anticipation of Jeremiah’s reaction. 

Jeremiah’s face contorted into comic confusion as he drew out a folded square of thick flannel. The blanket had probably once been a deep forest green but it had faded so badly that it was now a grey memory of green. Bruce had found it in an abandoned house. All the blankets gathered in the green zone were distributed among the refugees. Except for this one. Bruce had held it back knowing that there was at least one person here who couldn’t ask for help even if he had wanted to.

The question Jeremiah had for him this time was silent, written all over his face instead of making it out into spoken word.

“I thought it might help,” Bruce explained, feeling stupid all of a sudden. A slight chill was probably the least of Jeremiah’s concerns.

Despite that, Jeremiah looked incredibly earnest as he pulled the blanket closer to his chest. He sat back on the pipe with his knees up, curled over the blanket. He was almost… protective. The plastic bag rustled as Jeremiah reached in again. He frowned at the tupperware. “What is it this time?” he asked skeptically.

A wave of shame swept over Bruce for his actions the week before. The dog food had been a particularly cruel move on his part. It had been stockpiled as a possible food ration, but only after everything else had been depleted. It was meant to be a last resort and Bruce had given it to Jeremiah purely out of spite. Bruce was supposed to be better than that.

So he’d have to act better.

“It’s soup, from the hospital. They made a big batch with the last of the vegetables. There’s even meat in it, although I don’t know where it came from.” Bruce grimaced. He hadn’t wanted to ask. “It was pretty good, surprisingly, considering all the cats have gone missing.”

It was a stupid joke.

Jeremiah barked out a laugh, wicked and delighted at the same time. 

“Who would have guessed that the Prince of Gotham would go from eating caviar to eating dear ole putty-tats,” Jeremiah mused. He lifted the lid of the bowl and sniffed at it. He barely paused before bringing the bowl to his lips and drinking from it. His eyelids sank a little lower. Pleased. Jeremiah looked up again and there was a nearly imperceptible narrowing of his eyes when he looked at Bruce specifically. “This is a bribe, isn’t it? To make me go first.”

Bruce shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be.”

“Then by all means…” Jeremiah took another small, deliberate sip of his soup. 

Bruce rolled his eyes. He didn’t think Jeremiah would actually back out of their little deal about the questions. If there was only one thing upon which Jeremiah could be relied, it would be his obsessive desire to get closer to Bruce. That meant knowing Bruce, but it also meant letting Bruce know him in return. Afterall, the stunt in Wayne Manor had been about Jeremiah knowing Bruce, but the stunt in the alley had been about Bruce knowing Jeremiah.

“I saved you because I didn’t want you to die.”

The bowl of soup actually dropped back down to Jeremiah’s lap as an expression of his disappointment in the answer. His lip curled up in obvious disgust and Bruce held up a hand. 

“Do you want to hear the answer or not?”

It was clearly painful for Jeremiah to bite his tongue.

Bruce continued. “What you did to those people, making them look and act like my parents… It’s the most horrifying thing anyone has ever done in order to get to me,” he confessed quietly. “And I may never be able to forgive you for threatening Captain Gordon and Doctor Thompkins.”

He rubbed the back of his neck.

“But you were different that night too. You weren’t… cold like you had been that day in the graveyard or the night you destroyed the bridges. You were almost like the Jeremiah I met first, emotional but hiding it, desperate for approval. For belonging.” His memory-distant gaze sought out Jeremiah’s unwavering stare, taking comfort in knowing that it would be trained on him as he spoke. “I saved you because… a part of me wished that the Jeremiah I was actually friends with was still in there somewhere.”

“I am that Jeremiah,” Jeremiah insisted. He looked wild, eyes starting to bug out of his face. Jeremiah was desperate for Bruce to return the friendship even after Jeremiah had resolved to make Bruce hate him if he had to.

Bruce swallowed the lump in his throat. “I wouldn’t want to believe it, even if it were true,” he croaked.

“It is true,” Jeremiah claimed. His hands were like talons around his half-empty bowl of soup. “You wanted to know why I lied about Jerome when we were children?”

It was Bruce’s turn to go still with anticipation as Jeremiah worked himself into a state.

“Did Jerome ever speak about our childhood? Growing up in the circus? Because it wasn’t all fun and games like cheap children’s books would have you believe. It’s a business, the way the mafia is a business and it is built on backs of freaks who have no choice but to take it because there’s nowhere else to go.”

Jeremiah started rocking, seemingly because pacing in agitation wasn’t an option, seated as he was on top of the pipe. “Jerome and I were always different. Too smart, too odd, too challenging to ever belong there. We didn’t have a father. Our mother slept with any man she could, even when we were sleeping in the same room. There was no one to protect us. Jerome fought it. I hid from it. But it never stopped.”

Jeremiah hunched over his bowl again, staring at the floating bits of mushy potato and carrot like the circus whirled about between them. He took a deep, shuddering breath and emptied the remaining contents. Half the juice spilled out over edges and dribbled down his cheeks. He gasped as he swallowed the last chunks and looked nearly drunk afterward. It was so much like Jerome that it was difficult to keep watching. Bruce forced himself to, though, not wanting to know how Jeremiah might interpret Bruce’s inability to see him like this. 

Jeremiah raised an eyebrow. “My brother was right about one thing he said, you know. We always did think alike. We both hated the circus and we would have both done anything to get out of there. The only difference is, I acted on it. I planned and I escaped that life because it was the only way I was ever going to live.”

“So you lied about Jerome?” Bruce only hoped that Jeremiah had actually felt guilt over what he’d done, before the insanity gas wiped sensations like guilt from his biology entirely.

There was an ugly laugh. “Only about his actions. Not his character. If Jerome had thought, even for a moment, that slitting my throat would get him out of there, he’d have done it. He just hadn’t gotten past his childish plans for taking revenge on the grown-ups who hurt him. His short-sightedness and emotional reactions were always his greatest weaknesses.”

Blood rose to Bruce’s cheeks, unreasonably hurt on Jerome’s behalf. Not because he cared about Jerome the killer lunatic, but because he was capable of caring about the child that Jerome had once been, perhaps even the child that Jeremiah had been during a truly terrible childhood. Did Jerome ever really stand a chance? Maybe he could have been someone normal if he hadn’t had to endure literal torture growing up. Maybe he could have been saved before he took so many lives. It wasn’t fair and Bruce wished he could go back in time and beath the Valeska twins’ uncle into a bloody pulp for hurting children. And Jeremiah had left his own twin there to deal with it alone! Bruce leaned forward, the blood rising to his cheeks. He flung out an arm. “So why not run away? Why not come up with a plan to take Jerome with you? Why lie about him?”

No laughter this time. Anger, desire, confusion and even pride all slid off Jeremiah’s face like water and left no trace when they had gone. Jeremiah was just a calm, blank slate like he’d been the night the bridges fell. “I think that’s another question entirely,” Jeremiah said with a tilt of his chin. “Perhaps, even, a question for tomorrow.”

Bruce grit his teeth and got to his feet. Enough of this. He slammed the hatch shut without bothering to empty the bucket.

\------

The next afternoon passed and night advanced into the early morning by the time Bruce was able to come back. He was tired and sore from the excursion into the sewers he and Alfred had taken. It would take years to find the extent of the damage from those chemicals. 

He allowed himself a grimace when he knelt to unlock the hatch but schooled his face into a blank calm before he faced his prisoner. 

“What happened?” Jeremiah asked as soon as he saw Bruce’s face.

Bruce closed his eyes, feeling tired. He wanted an aspirin but all the painkillers were at the hospital for people who needed it more than he did. At the very least, he could go back to the apartment, fall into bed, and hopefully sleep without nightmares for one night.

“Is that your question?”

Jeremiah’s face darkened. His lips nearly disappeared into a thin line of disappointment.

Bruce waited him out, to see how badly Jeremiah wanted to know. Would he give up an opportunity to learn something more intimate about his favorite obsession?

“I want to know who hurt you,”

“Fine. But I went first last time. Do you remember my question?”

“Yes,” Jeremiah hissed, irritated. “Why did I forsake my brother in order to escape the circus? As if it even matters.”

Bruce shrugged and eased himself down into the same sitting position from yesterday, although he kept his legs folded in front of him rather than let them dangle. He hadn’t wanted to fuss with the harness. 

“You wanted to know more about me, right? I want to know more about you.”

Well, really Bruce wanted to know more about the real Jeremiah but this was the closest he would ever come. Jeremiah as seen through the filter of Jerome’s insanity gas. There was no one left who could tell him about the Jeremiah from before. This would have to do.

Jeremiah narrowed his eyes but didn’t complain any further. Instead he climbed the pipe towards his perch. With Jeremiah coming out of the shadows, Bruce realized that he’d tied the blanket Bruce had given his around his neck. Like a cape. It was grey, tattered, and damp at the bottom unlike the cape that he’d donned in his sick little film. In fact, it felt more like a child pretending to be a hero than it had while he pretended to be Zorro.

Settled on top of the pipe, Jeremiah tugged the edges of his cape a little closer.

Bruce tossed him today’s bag. It landed squarely in his lap. Jeremiah looked impressed and opened the bag. Like the previous day, there was something extra in the bag. A clean washcloth and a small bar of soap, both of which he’d taken from his own bathroom after he’d cleaned the sewer off of himself.

Jeremiah looked dazed, holding the bar of soap in his palm. He brought it up to his face and inhaled. His eyes closed before focusing on Bruce’s face. 

“You’re going to spoil me, Bruce,” he teased with a grin. 

Was it the soap that pleased Jeremiah so much or the fact that upon using it he would smell more like Bruce? That small voice in his head was a traitor. “Don’t get used to it,” Bruce grumbled instead.

It was better today, despite the aches and pains from his fight. He was too tired, too drained to feel irate on behalf of the child that Jerome had once been. It was better this way, if he could remain more unemotional when he talked to Jeremiah. 

“I’ll do my best.” Jeremiah carefully, gently wrapped the soap inside the washcloth like he was wrapping a precious gem. He tucked the package back inside the plastic bag and withdrew a ziploc bag full of the contents of a tin of carrots. 

He plucked one of the orange rounds out of the bag and popped into his mouth. Sucking on his fingers, he rolled his head in thought and then started. 

“I needed a good enough reason to leave. My mother would have never let both of us leave her there alone. Anything short of life threatening and she would have come after me. Jerome was far more brazen and his behavior more obviously erratic. It was an easy choice.”

“Easy? He was your brother. Your twin.”

Jeremiah eyed him, amused. “That is a very strange sentiment to possess on behalf of the psychopath who tried to kill you. Three times. But I suppose I can forgive you, having never been forced to live with a sibling, especially one as trying as Jerome.”

Eating another couple of carrots, there was silence.

“Ultimately, it came down to the fact that if we both left, Mother would have had men come after us and I would never be free of the circus. So, I ensured that Jerome would stay with Mother and I could go. Then I could be free.”

“Free?” Bruce asked, skeptical. “You lived under a fake name. You spent your entire adult life living in an underground maze. You never left and you never had visitors. That’s not exactly free, is it?”

Jeremiah hummed around the next carrot. “Well, I was a child when I told my lies and left. It takes time and experience to refine one’s schemes. I like to think my plans have matured since then.”

There was more to it. There had to be more to it. “Just admit you made a mistake,” Bruce spit out. “You lied, threw Jerome under the bus, and had to live with the consequences. Jerome was tortured, he went bad, and it’s all your fault.”

Jeremiah’s sharpened at the confrontational tone. Jeremiah leaned forward, so intent on Bruce that he didn’t notice the carrot juice spilling over the edge of the open ziploc bag and onto his pants. “Jerome was born bad.”

Bruce shrugged. “Then so were you.”

Jeremiah looked angry with Bruce since the first time he’d screamed about understanding their so-called connection. The bag of carrots spilled out of his lap and hit the water below. The little orange circles floated to the dark surface. Jermiah was on his feet now, stretched upwards as much as he could manage. “I am nothing like Jerome. Jerome was always the crazy one,” he spat.

“He killed people without care for human life. You killed people without care for human life. You said it yourself, Jerome’s insanity gas only had cosmetic affects. If it didn’t change you, then you were born bad just like Jerome and the man I thought I could be friends with never existed.” As soon as he said, the bottom dropped out of his stomach. The man he thought he’d been friends with hadn’t actually existed, not since that very first night when he made the offer to fund Jeremiah’s generators. 

Jeremiah looked as though he might try and throw himself towards the opening. Keeping his legs out of the opening was probably the best choice Bruce had made all day, if goading a mass murderer was the worst. 

Slowly, though, the tension drained out of Jeremiah and his face and body eased. He laughed, a dry and humorless chuckle. “Your interpretation of my past demonstrates insight but no nuance. Tell me, Bruce, is the world beautiful in black and white? Do you miss the color of a more vibrant life?”

Bruce clamped his mouth down around an unnamed fear that threatened to spill from his tongue. What did that question even mean? What did Jeremiah, of all people, mean by it? Selina was quick to deride him and roll her eyes at his insistence upon a right and wrong… a black and white, but she always seemed tired by it. She’d never seemed enthralled by it. The way Jeremiah was gazing up at Bruce, it was if he really did want to experience the way Bruce saw the world. 

“Should I dress up in purple suits, like you? Dye my hair green?”

Heat blazed in Jeremiah’s cold eyes. “As good as you would look in my suit, I would much prefer you finding your own style. Shades of grey, perhaps?”

Answering heat flared across Bruce’s cheekbones and he frowned at the feeling. It wasn’t anger like it should have been. 

Jeremiah smiled but it was as strangely disconnected as it had been at the kitchen table, like he put it there because he thought he should. Because that’s what friends would do. “You are beautiful, my dear,” Jeremiah breathed. “One day you will see your own beauty too. One day you will embrace it. I’ll help you.”

I don’t need your help. It would have been an easy retort, nearly expected given the animosity of their conversation so far. But where fear might have had him saying something unwise only moments before, now it would have him say nothing at all. His tongue felt swollen and heavy. 

He couldn’t say it.

Bruce was standing by a precipice that had been started by Jerome, expanded by Ra’s, and personalized by Jeremiah. Before him the shadowy depths of Gotham’s worst reality yawned and threatened to swallow him. Jeremiah was behind him, ready to give him a push. 

Ra’s al Ghul wanted Bruce to jump. Jeremiah wanted Bruce to fall. Ra’s al Ghul was dead. Jeremiah was imprisoned. 

And Bruce? Bruce was only just beginning to understand how big everything was turning out to be. He needed to move forward. He couldn’t stay here, motionless in the face of Gotham’s self-destruction. He just didn’t know if he could do it. Could he move forward with Gotham falling down around him at the machinations of people like Jerome and Jeremiah, who just wanted to get to him and mold him on his way down?

“What happened to you today, Bruce?” Jeremiah asked, breaking through his thoughts and looking as though he would carve out Bruce’s eyes if it would give him the opportunity to see from Bruce’s perspective.

Bruce shivered. This was a very bad idea. He shouldn’t be letting Jeremiah into his head. Jeremiah would make himself a home there and if there was any room left for Bruce, it probably wouldn’t be for a version of himself that he would recognize.

“Tell me who hurt you,” Jeremiah crooned.

Blinking, Bruce gave in. "People from one of the shelters were going missing. Alfred and I found a man who had been living in the sewers. Your chemicals in the river changed him. He was violent, irrational, eating people."

"Why didn't you tell Jim Gordon about these missing people?"

Bruce frowned. Of course Jeremiah skip over everything else to land on that. "Alfred wanted to help save someone, after you used him to get to me."

Jeremiah seemed unphased, certainly not guilty about the actions taken against Bruce and Alfred. "And you were injured. How? How did this man hurt you?"

"He cut me, threw me around. That's it. "

"Is he dead?"

"I didn't kill him, if that's what you're asking," Bruce snapped, glaring. 

"I want to know if I need to find him when I get out of here."

Bruce's stomach churned at Jeremiah’s absolute certainty that he would get free. They couldn't keep him here forever, but he ought to be transferred to the authorities. Or was it the deadly possessiveness that Jeremiah seemed to be feeling regarding Bruce's well-being that gave him such confidence? Bruce honestly didn't know. 

"He's dead," Bruce confirmed quietly. "Your poison caused too much damage."

Jeremiah tilted his head. "I'm not the one who put it in the river," he pointed out. 

"No, you'd have put it in the air and killed everyone!"

Jeremiah smiled, sharp with too many teeth. His eyes were unnerving in their attempt to penetrate Bruce's defense. Only when did Bruce pull away from the sight did he realize that he had been leaning forward.

"Would I have?" Jeremiah breathed.

"Yes."

Jeremiah hummed. "Would I have really killed every one?."

Bruce curled his lip at the idea that Jeremiah might have orchestrated the events of that night to protect him and kill the city. "Why spare me?" he asked.

"Why help those people from the shelter personally?" Jeremiah countered.

Bruce had to tear his gaze away from Jeremiah, looking at the pipes against the wall to his right without really seeing them. Answering this question would start them off on another round. How many had they been through already, now that they had gotten started? With a sigh, Bruce turned back. “The police have enough to do,” Bruce said. “They have to deal with people like you and Crane and a hundred other criminally insane faction leaders. They are doing their best but they can’t be everywhere at once.”

“But why you?”

Jeremiah’s eyes. Why did they always manage to capture Bruce so securely? Was it their strange paleness? Or their intensity? Perhaps it was the way they always managed to see something Bruce would rather stay hidden.

“Because I’m responsible for Gotham.” It was his to protect, especially because he was the reason it kept getting attacked.

A small, sad smile, appeared on Jeremiah’s lips. “And that, my dear, is why I would spare you.”

“So I could feel guilty about everything you’ve done to other people just to get to me!?” Bruce snapped.

Jeremiah held up a hand, looking vulnerable without his gloves. “No, no, no, Bruce. You misunderstand me. I would spare you because… Gotham is you and you are Gotham. If you were gone, there would be no Gotham either.”

Bruce gasped against the growing pressure in his chest. It sounded like the truth but it couldn’t possibly be… Or if it was the truth, then surely Bruce couldn’t let it stay that way. 

“And because you are my best friend,” Jeremiah added from below, hatefully earnest and damningly appropriate.

"I can't be your friend if you keep acting against me, as though you know better than I do about what I need."

"But I-"

"No." Bruce stood, tried not to sway and grimace at his sore body's protestation. "There’s no question, no debate, no negotiation. If you really want to be my friend, if you want me to be your friend, then you need to respect me and my decisions. That's it. If you're not capable of that, then you're not capable of really being my friend."

Long, white fingers curled into the edges of the blanket like talons. Every ounce of peaceful intensity had transformed into a river of anguish that contorted his face. His face turned up towards the light, it was easy to see the cracked skin of his lips, the streaks of dirt on his throat.

Mercy.

Mercy, Bruce reminded himself. His rage, his ability to damage the people who crossed him, did not end with the physical and for all Jeremiah’s intelligence, he was not entirely reasonable. So Bruce crouched down over the opening and peered at Jeremiah. 

"But if you are capable," he continued, far more softly, "if you can respect me and the decisions I make for myself, then maybe someday I could count you as a friend."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise, the whole story won't take place in the cistern. Next time, Jeremiah's point of view...


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which we finally understand things from Jeremiah's point of view and the boys come to some level of understanding.

Days passed by in darkness with little conversation between the captured and the captor, but it was not the tense, angry, and resentful silence Jeremiah'd had to endure in the days immediately following his birthday surprise for Bruce. In those days, Bruce had been hurt and angry with him. Jeremiah had wavered between angering him further in order to bear the beautiful brunt of his rage and remaining quiet in order giving Bruce the time he needed to come to Jeremiah on his own. He had ended up somewhere in between, playing a fascinating little game of questions. Like truth or dare, without the dares. They’d already challenged one another physically after all.

Instead, the silence these days were marked for their ease. Bruce greeted him easily, brought him the occasional amenity. So far Jeremiah had the blanket, the soap, a toothbrush, toothpaste, and a pocket flashlight. Bruce would empty the waste bucket, feed him, and ask him a few light and meaningless questions, which Jeremiah often asked in return just to keep the obligation of exchange alive and well. He would need Bruce to continue to feel obligated to ask and answer questions. Jeremiah needed Bruce to keep conversing, no matter what.

The first questions Bruce had ever asked of Jeremiah were all about Jerome and that had been absolutely infuriating. The man was dead and buried yet again and even more unlikely to return this time. Why would Bruce want to linger on the memory of a corpse? A corpse like Jerome, no less. 

Jerome Valeska had always been the more charming, of course, but from the moment Jeremiah had laid eyes on Bruce Wayne, heard him speak, he had laid claim on the younger man. If he had gotten the opportunity, he would have gladly killed Jerome himself for daring to lay a hand on Jeremiah’s best friend. He would have succeeded if he hadn’t let Jerome goad him into an emotional outburst on stage. Regardless, Jerome was dead and Jeremiah had Bruce servicing his needs. He certainly had the better outcome, even if there were several ways in which his circumstances could improve. 

Bruce was charming, too, but in a manner completely foreign to the sorts of charm Jerome turned on people. It was just as transparent, or at least it had been transparent to Jeremiah, but it lacked the gleeful anticipation of success that flavored Jerome's attempts at normal interaction. Such a young man with so dark a past and so vibrant a future, a young man with a sharp mind. He was a rare find and he was the only one Jeremiah had ever considered worthy of friendship. Even Ecco was more of a trusted employee, rather than a true friend. Having his demonstrations of friendship spurned was easily the most painful thing he had ever experienced. 

The plan he had concocted in the midst of that pain was inelegant. It relied too heavily on wild emotions and wouldn’t have had the necessary impact to cement Bruce’s hatred for very long at all if James Gordon and Leslie Thompkins hadn’t finally wandered into Tetch’s hands. The plan would have served its purpose, though. Bruce could have let Jeremiah fall and Jeremiah might have died. Bruce would have carried the lingering guilt around with him forever if that had happened. If Jeremiah had fallen and somehow survived, then Bruce would have still been unable to escape the knowledge that he was partially responsible for whatever transformation Jeremiah underwent as a result of the acid. Yet the current outcome was by far the most hoped for. Jeremiah lived, Bruce kept him from falling, and now he felt more responsible for Jeremiah than ever because now Bruce felt responsible for Jeremiah’s life and every action he took in that life.

Even if Bruce’s questions were about Jerome, at least they were speaking to one another. They were speaking now! Having actual conversations about the very things he sought most, that which affected Bruce so greatly. While hearing childhood stories from the butler had been entertaining, it hadn't been nearly as useful as he had hoped. All of that had existed in a time before their meeting and it meant very little aside from some tangential influence on Bruce’s development.

These questions that Bruce asked now, as trying as they had been so far, had also revealed more useful information in a matter of hours than he had learned about Bruce in the days he’d held Alfred captive. The best, most promising information... there remained a part of Bruce that desired friendship with Jeremiah. He cradled that thought in his heart like a precious flower. Bruce had been Jeremiah’s friend, he could be again. Jeremiah only had to show him how glorious it could be between them. He had to reassure Bruce, soothe him, let him know that it was alright for him to accept what Jeremiah offered. 

There was so much holding Bruce back.Bruce didn’t approve of the death. He didn’t approve of average citizens getting killed. Jeremiah had wanted to build a Gotham for the both of them, not only for himself. Why else would he have given the police the time they needed to evacuate, if not for Bruce? Bruce would not have seen it that way unless he had succumbed to the fear toxin and been forced to kill the specter of his only remaining family. Jeremiah was almost glad that part of his plan failed. He was enjoying himself immensely, afterall, and none of this would have happened if he’d succeeded then in breaking Bruce.

Jeremiah’s desire to build a new Gotham and get closer to Bruce had morphed into a singular goal after meeting Ra’s al Ghul. The man himself was far too sanctimonious for Jeremiah with a truly baffling belief in magic and prophecies, but he’d had a clear and concise plan at the moment Jeremiah most needed a plan. Ultimately, Jeremiah found the chaos following the destruction of the bridges to be entertaining but there was no structure in it. It had been illuminating in its way, to see Gotham destroyed, not by bombs, but by its own people. All the city’s major criminal players came out and displayed their power and their faults for everyone to see. None of it had laid the groundwork for rebuilding, though. Not for Gotham. Not for Bruce. It simply cut Gotham off and let it consume itself. That was most definitely not Jeremiah's end goal.

Gotham needed to be rebuilt. It could be a grand monument given the right design. But that monument could not be his conceptualization of his maze, nor could it be Ra’s’ image of the dark island. It would take time to work out the next design iteration he might attempt. And as with any good design, additional data was of vital importance. Since Gotham and Bruce were so inextricably entangled, that data had to come from Bruce himself. In that regard, being Bruce’s captive was the perfect solution. Bruce felt like he was in control. He felt confident. It was that confidence which allowed him to share things with Jeremiah he would never have shared while they were fighting.

Bruce felt so confident that he had issued an ultimatum, of sorts, that demanded Jeremiah’s respect. It was a strange demand, given that he’d had Jeremiah’s respect from the first moment he spoke. If Jeremiah didn’t respect Bruce, they never would have come this far. Jeremiah would have taken his money, cut him out of the design process, and not bothered to explain himself when the time came to execute the plan. Jeremiah more than respected Bruce. It was clear that Bruce was asking for something more specific, though.

Respect for his actions, done. Easy.

Respect for his decisions… more problematic. 

Of course Jeremiah knew what Bruce needed, he had an outside perspective which was by far the most objective position one could hold, even if his feelings towards Bruce were anything but objective. Recent failures revealed that his approach to helping Bruce, at the very least, was particularly flawed. That meant a change in his approach was required. Which aspects had caused the most resistance?

Provocation was always a reliable catalyst for movement and change, yet his attempts to orchestrate one specific and particular outcome by provoking Bruce had created too much friction and the entire mechanism exploded in his face. Bruce hadn’t wanted anything to do with him, even in hatred. He needed a way to reduce friction, harness the energy, and focus it in a new direction.

Jeremiah thought of their generators.

Those had been such an elegant solution. No burning required, no destruction or creation of atoms, no radioactive waste of which to dispose. There was, afterall, energy all around at any given moment, moving through the world in an infinite and complex series of micro-interactions that built, created, and dispersed without direction. All he had really needed to do, in the end, was figure out how to harness the results of the micro-interactions. Controlling the infinite interactions themselves was as absurd as it was unnecessary 

Controlling the interactions Bruce had with Gotham could therefore be just as absurd as it was unnecessary. The interactions would happen whether he orchestrated them or not. What was of more critical importance was for Jeremiah to learn how to harness the results. For that, he needed access. He needed to close the distance between himself and Bruce until he was able to feel the vibrations of Bruce’s very being when he struck against the outside world. 

Perhaps, on occasion, Jeremiah could be that which struck against Bruce. For old time's sake. 

He could not relinquish his autonomy in the quest to harness Bruce’s potential. He would have to remind Bruce, as often as possible, that although he desired to be closer to Bruce, Bruce would have to come to him too. He would be willing to temporarily put his overt attempts to rebuild Gotham on hold and gather the data and resources he needed to harness Bruce’s transformation, though. The transformation would happen, he need only get closer to the man, wait, and whisper in his ear to alter its final appearance.

A new peace slipped over him upon deciding his course of action. He washed with the soap that Bruce brought him. He brushed his teeth with the toothbrush that Bruce had given him. And he pushed his fingers through his hair to calm the wayward strands. He didn’t have any mascara, eyeshadow, or lipstick and so he could hardly appear his best, but he did what he could. He lay back on the concrete platform, wrapped in the blanket, and planned his next move.

In the dark, it was difficult to track time accurately. Even Jeremiah’s natural precision was not enough to keep it on track. Even so, he thought that the next time the hatch opened, it was many, many hours later than it should have been, more hours than it had been after Bruce and Alfred explored the sewers and Bruce had gotten hurt. 

Torn between irritation that he had been denied his time with Bruce and fear that something had happened to Bruce, Jeremiah watched the ceiling with rabid interest. A flash of coat, the scrape of boots, and a bloom of light. Bruce appeared above him, looking a calm and serious as ever. Yet… he looked tired. His eyes were dark and sunken, he had a split lip and there was a spreading bruise across one cheek.

Jeremiah climbed up to his perch and leaned out as far as he could for a better look. A faint floral scent drifted to greet him. His lip curled in disgust. Yet they also quivered with the desire to press gently against that lovely purpled flesh. He would very much like to be the one causing colors like that to bloom across Bruce’s skin. He would paint Bruce in all the shades of his affection. But someone else had gotten there first and it was not affection with which they painted. That filthy little cat burglar didn't wear this particular perfume, so who had the audacity to get so close to Bruce?

"That smell," Jeremiah finally hissed. "Who has been so near to you, my dear?"

"Ivy Pepper," Bruce replied without pause or protestation. Nor did he force Jeremiah to go first in their little game of questions. Progress. As to the name, Jeremiah did not recognize it, but he would remember it.

"Do you have a new girlfriend?" Jeremiah breathed out the question, knowing that he may very well destroy all that new progress if Bruce said yes. He would find her and kill her, but only after teaching her thoroughly that Bruce was not to be touched.

The look of disgust on Bruce’s face soothed him.

"No! Ivy has this perfume that makes guys think they're in love with her. We had a little run-in yesterday. And today."

"And did you think you were in love with her?"

"Yes."

Jeremiah sucked a breath in through his teeth, mind already flipping through a hundred different possibilities for this Ivy Pepper's demise.

"But Selina knocked me out of it before-"

"Selina?"Jeremiah interrupted. The only thing worse than a new player who threatened to distract Bruce from Jeremiah was an established one, one that had gotten to Bruce first. Perhaps he should have aimed for something more deadly than her spinal chord.

Bruce went quiet and still. His dark brown eyes were somber and still, creeping with that mixture of sadness and anger. Jeremiah hated that look as much as he loved it, for it inevitably meant Bruce would pull away again.

"I went to Ivy to help Selina. They used to be friends. She gave me a… plant or something that helped Selina walk again."

Jeremiah growled It wasn't the reversal of Jeremiah’s injury to Selina that irked him. This was Gotham. No one stayed down or dead. No, it was Bruce’s reckless disregard for his own safety in his blind effort to save a thief. "So you just charged off to make a deal with someone dangerous and didn't stop to consider the consequences?" he hissed.

A furrow creased the smooth expanse of Bruce’s forehead. "I considered them," Bruce asserted. "Helping Selina was worth it."

Jeremiah scoffed. If you asked him, there were no lives that could possibly be worth cutting Bruce’s short before he had the opportunity to rise. At least this Ivy woman had been happy to toy with Bruce. That was something that he could use, if he ever crossed her path.

Bruce tossed him a bag, yet again heavier than it ought to be if it only contained his daily ration. Jeremiah caught it in his arms, unwilling to let any offering from Bruce, no matter how small or begrudging, fall into the water. Pushing the plastic aside revealed a clean navy blue t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. 

Jeremiah blinked rapidly and sighed in happiness. Feeding, cleaning, and clothing him. Bruce was beginning to take ownership of Jeremiah, not just responsibility. 

He pulled his grimy shirt over his head and let it drop down from his perch into the water while he turned and lay the bag and its contents on top of the pipe behind him, safe from dirt and damage. The buttery soft cotton slipping over his shoulders and teasing at his belly sent shivers of delight racing across his skin. It was tight across the chest and arms. The quality and the size meant that it was from Bruce’s own supply of clothing. He shivered again from the mere thought. The same clothing that had touched Bruce’s skin was touching his skin now. 

Jeremiah sought Bruce out to find the younger man looking down at him with a dark and unreadable expression. "Thank you, Bruce." Words could not express how happy this actually made him, but perhaps an expression of appreciation was the best place to start. He wished he could find Bruce’s hamper of dirty clothing and make a nest for himself. A nest comprised of Bruce’s things. His scent, unmarred by this Ivy Pepper’s perfume.

Bruce cleared his throat before speaking. His voice was rougher than it was a moment ago. How interesting. "You're welcome, Jeremiah."

What Jeremiah wouldn't give to be up there on even ground with Bruce, to press forward and see where this facade cracked under the force. "Do you have a question for me?" Jeremiah pressed verbally instead. 

Bruce looked away. Jeremiah waited. Bruce felt obligated to ask his questions of Jeremiah. 

Finally, Bruce asked, "Have you thought about what I said?"

Jeremiah tilted his head. Of course he had thought about it. All he could do down here was think.

"Do you think that…" Bruce looked away again, subconsciously aware how much of himself he revealed when asking a question like this. "Do you think you might be capable? Of being a real friend?"

The urge to claim that he was already a real friend surfaced and Jeremiah had to clamp down on it, hard. That was not what Bruce wanted to hear. Bruce wanted to hear something that sounded more like the truth as he believed it to be. He wanted to hear that it was alright for him to let himself have the friendship Jeremiah offered.

Eyelashes fluttering to appear uncomfortable and uncertain, Jeremiah furrowed his brow in exaggerated distress. He softened and appeared just a bit more like the Jeremiah that Bruce claimed to have wanted as a friend. "I- I've never had a friend before, Bruce. I don’t know if I know how to be a real friend to anyone, let alone you. I'm willing to try, though. You've been so kind-"

"Don't do that," Bruce growled. 

Jeremiah blinked. "Do what?"

"Don't pretend to be someone you're not anymore." The strange new softness in Bruce’s voice was puzzling. He was… sad? Why? For whom?

Even still, the vibrating, hunched nervousness Jeremiah had adopted for this facade melted away. His shoulders squared and his gaze became steady once again. He stared up at Bruce, parsing out his own thoughts and planning his words. "I am your friend Bruce," he said eventually. "But you do not regard me as such. I would much prefer a bond of friendship over a bond of hatred and so I am willing to make… certain concessions in order to help you feel more comfortable accepting the friendship already offered to you."

Bruce huffed a dry laugh, shocking Jeremiah quite thoroughly. "What concessions might those be?" 

"Which concessions might you require?" Jeremiah hedged. There were certain things he could not possibly concede because to do so would mean the cessation of his autonomy. He had already determined not to relinquish that. Their friendship would be meaningless if he did so.

Bruce, at least, seemed to take his question seriously and thought it over for a minute before answering. "I asked myself the same question. I've been thinking about it for days, wondering if I could ask you to stop killing or stop plotting to destroy Gotham."

Jeremiah stiffened. 

"But I decided I didn't want you to pretend. Asking you to stop plotting Gotham’s destruction would just mean that you'd go behind my back to do it, if you even agreed to go along with something like that in the first place. One day you'd snap and I might not see it coming. So, I think I might require a few other things instead."

"And those might be?"

"I won't ask you to stop killing people for me, but I would ask that you not kill my friends. And I don’t want you to torture them just to get to me."

Jeremiah twitched. He couldn’t promise that. 

Seeing his rejection, Bruce held up his hand. He was wearing black leather gloves. "You can mess with them, test them, and push them, if you feel the need. But no straight-up torture and no killing them for any reason."

There was a surprising level of understanding in those nuanced conditions. He shouldn't really be surprised, though. He and Bruce did understand one another in a way no one else could, despite their many continued conflicts. But he had expected Bruce to play up his own naivety. The cold practicality of giving Jeremiah permission to toy with his friends was nearly cruel and well...., it was delicious. 

"I concede to this term. I will not kill or physicall torture your friends unless doing so is necessary preserve my life or to protect you. I reserve the right to play with them at my leisure, but I won’t kill them." Jeremiah winked at Bruce. He'd read enough contracts in his life to give himself a loophole to two. 

Bruce signed and rubbed one glove covered hand over his eyes before it dropped and their eyes met again. Jeremiah wanted to burn the gloves. But he could tolerate them for now, if they kept Bruce from touching too much of other people.

"Fine," Bruce agreed.

"Next?"

"Next, I don't want you to threaten the entire city or kill innocent people just to push me to breaking. If you want to break me, focus on me, not everyone else."

"How noble," Jeremiah admonished. "I cannot guarantee that no innocents will get hurt in the unfolding of my plans, but I will concede any direct targeting of these so called innocents in any plan that might use their deaths as a deliberate attempt to force you into action."

"Do I need to have a lawyer look over these concessions of yours?" Bruce asked.

Jeremiah tilted his head and then blinked when he realized that Bruce was teasing him. That sort of good-natured jibe that friends were known for trading. He smiled at the gift.

"If you are having trouble, I could use smaller words?" Jeremiah tentatively teased back.

"I understand the words just fine. I just don't want you to wriggle out of every agreement we make on a technicality. "

"Contingencies are often necessary, Bruce, and always a good idea. But I will endeavor to adhere to the spirit of every agreement." Jeremiah shrugged. "To the best of my ability."

"Okay," Bruce allowed. "And lastly, you need to talk to me and you need to listen to me when I talk to you. You can't just assume you know what's best for me."

Jeremiah dipped his chin in a solemn nod. "I promise you, Bruce, you and I will talk about many things and I will listen to you when you speak." The grin that toyed at the corner of Jeremiah’s lips was nearly feral, he felt so giddy with delight. "Although you may have to remind me on occasion."

Bruce snorted and they shared the thought that it would likely be far more often than just an occasion or two, but Jeremiah relished the fights in their future as much as he relished the harmony. Every clash of wills could be violent, bloody, and beautiful. 

"Is that all you feel you require?"

Bruce shrugged. "I reserve the right to reopen negotiations at any point."

"Agreed."

Bruce's smile was just as small and tentative, but far more earnest and full of delicate hope. "Eat your dinner, Jeremiah. "

Without even a goodbye, Bruce stood and closed the hatch. The lock clicked closed. The cistern was dark with it shut, but faint light did stream in past the edges and Jeremiah’s eyes had been extremely sensitive to light since Jerome's gift. He could see faint outlines and climbed back onto the platform without error. Inside the bag, he found a container of tuna fish with mayonnaise and bits of celery. There were two bottles of water. 

He fell onto the feast of fat and protein with gusto, wondering if it had been Bruce’s sudden decision to accept their friendship that prompted these boons. Tongue heavy with the oil in the mayo, Jeremiah drank the entirety of one bottle. 

Jeremiah tucked everything back into the bag and climbed down from his perch. He climbed back onto his dry platform, shoved his blanket under his head, and buried his face into his new shirt. He inhaled the faint remnants of Bruce’s cologne and sighed happily. He drifted off, breathing Bruce in and dreaming of their future friendship. 

Footsteps.

Jeremiah sat up straight and trained his eyes on the weak light from under the rim of the hatch. There was an extended period of shifting and scraping. This was not Bruce, he never returned after leaving for the night. Who had found him?

Jeremiah sank back into the darkest corner just as the hatch lifted free of its seat with a heavy groan. He watched the opening and waited for this unknown visitor to make a mistake.

"Boss?"

A head of frizzy hair appeared, dangling down from the opening. 

Ecco.

Jeremiah stepped into the light and gazed up at his beautiful and dedicated assistant.

Ecco smiled, broad and vacant at seeing him. She pulled herself back and a rope descended into the cistern. Jeremiah examined it, the same rope used throughout his imprisonment to haul up his waste bucket. Left up there, in the open, for any passerby to use. If Bruce had been careless, Jeremiah would have to reprimand him. 

Jeremiah changed into the sweatpants that Bruce had brought him and packed up the precious offerings from his captor into tonight's plastic bag, along with the extra bottle of water. He tied the blanket around his neck once more and took hold of the rope. Not as strong as he'd been before incarceration, he half relied on Ecco to pull him up. Yet between the two of them, he was scrambling over the edge and onto dry, solid ground for the first time in weeks. 

"My dear Ecco," he praised, panting up at the pipes overhead. "However did you find me?"

"Something was up with him today, boss. Careless. I followed him here. I never stopped looking for you."

Jeremiah hummed, noncommittal. 

It was truly not like Bruce to be so careless. Never had Jeremiah seen a more careful young many save himself. So it must have been the influence of Miss Pepper's perfume. That had worn off by the time he visited Jeremiah, though.

The clothes, the food, the water. Final negotiations. 

Jeremiah grinned and climbed to his feet, brushing concrete dust from his new clothes. Bruce had not been careless. 

Jeremiah took Ecco's hand and placed a gallant kiss on her knuckles. She was silly and partial to such things after the bullet stirred up her grey matter.

"Come, Ecco. There's much to do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you'll notice, I have determined that there will be five chapters total in this work, with a short one-shot sequel to follow. I hope you enjoyed Jeremiah's thought process on their friendship. It was so much fun to write, being this strange cross between analytical and poetic. 
> 
> Next up... a few shenanigans and a few physical interactions. 
> 
> -wink-


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bruce and Jeremiah fight, just not with each other.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There are spoilers for the s5e11: They Did What. This is the chapter where this story finally earns its Mature rating. There is a tiny amount of possible dubious consent. Considering the pairing, it's really not all that bad, but in the interest of giving fair warning, I will describe it in the end notes so that you may decide if you want to read it.

"You can't do this alone," Dr. Thompkins protested as Bruce gathered up Jeremiah’s battery core. 

"He won't be alone," Selina said.

"No." Bruce put his hand on her arm and made sure she was looking at him. "I need you to make sure Alfred is safe. The clinic is vulnerable."

"Bruce, you can't-"

"Please, Selina."

She studied his face as he had wanted her to and unfailingly read his guilty desperation and fear without him having to confess it out loud to everyone in the room. She didn't like letting him do this alone, the pinch of her lips made it perfectly clear. But when she broke eye contact, he knew she would do it. 

Bruce nodded his quiet thanks to everyone in the room, looping the handles of the bag over one palm. "I'll see you soon."

The streets were not quiet but they were abandoned. The sounds of gunshots and explosions echoed down every street and alley. The buildings themselves warned of the battle coming in their direction. 

Bruce jogged, keeping to one side of the dark street. The battery core jolted with every step. It was stable, Bruce reminded himself. It wouldn't explode from a little bit of motion. It had to be activated and allowed to supercharge before it would explode. Its stability and safety were two of the things that had most impressed Bruce in Jeremiah’s original design. Even repurposed as a bomb, they had to be set off intentionally.

The whip of helicopter rotors stirred sound all around him and the spotlight on the craft swept across the street ahead. Bruce jolted to a stop. A tall, broad figure stood in the center of the street, briefly illuminated and cast again in shadow as the helicopter flew onwards. 

Bruce walked towards it.

"Where are you off to in such a hurry?" Jeremiah asked, like Bruce might be stuck in traffic rather than navigating a war zone. "And what have you got in the bag?"

Jeremiah even looked as though he was out and about for the evening, impeccably dressed in a dark grey suit with a pastel purple shirt and a lime green tie. His gloves matched the tie. Where did Jeremiah find a tailor during all of this mess? Or had he squirreled away caches of stylish clothing before he pressed the detonator on his maze plan? Jeremiah was surprisingly vain for a former academic confined to his bunker.

Bruce held up the bag. “It’s your battery core. I’m going to blow up Wayne Enterprises.”

He swept past a frozen Jeremiah.

A series of hurried footsteps indicated Jeremiah broke himself free and jogged to catch up. He appeared at Bruce’s left elbow, too busy looking at Bruce to really watch where he was going. “You’re teasing me,” Jeremiah accused.

Bruce grinned, feeling a grim glimmer of pleasure despite his destructive plan. “I’m really not.”

“May I enquire as to why you are going to blow up Wayne Tower?”

“The army broke through the barrier. They’re on their way to the GCPD right now. Your plans for the maze had the tower falling across the street. If I put the bomb in the same place, it ought to buy us some time while they go around.”

“Delightful. I’ll come with you.”

Bruce paused, frowning at him. “I’m blowing up the last of my family’s legacy, not going on a picnic. And need I remind you, you are responsible for blowing up the first part of their legacy?”

“I am,” Jeremiah confirmed with a soft quiver in his voice. “And I would very much like to witness this transformative act.”

Bruce clenched his fists as he clenched his will down around the swell of anger in his chest. Jeremiah didn’t need to sound so… aroused by the prospect of Bruce being driven to an act like this, where he was being forced to choose between the memory of his parents and the future of his city. Jeremiah was a psychopath who could never appreciate what it meant to care about other people. He could, at the very least, not look so fucking pleased with Bruce. Proud and fond and loving in such a perverse expression.

“Aren’t you going to ask me how I got out?” Jeremiah prompted.

Except, Jeremiah already knew that Bruce was well aware how he got out. Ecco was good, very good, but Bruce had learned how to read his surroundings. Between the practical vacancy of most of Gotham’s streets and her rather unique manner after the bullet, she wasn’t as good as she thought she was. Not anymore, at least. He’d known that she had started trailing him, waiting for him to lead her to Jeremiah. 

“I assume Ecco let you out,” Bruce said out loud. “She’d been following me for days.”

One of Jeremiah’s eyes narrowed. “Why lead her to me? Why let me out?” he asked.

Bruce sighed. He stepped down off the curb and checked the dark alley they were about to cross. There was no one there, but it was safer to check. “The government is here, in case you didn’t notice, and they’re not interested in the rule of law. They’re here to kill everyone and raze Gotham to the ground.”

Jeremiah stepped in front of Bruce, stopping all forward progress. “You could have told any one of them who you had locked in that cistern and they would have gladly taken care of me. You wouldn’t have had to kill me. You could have been rid of me. Why not say something, even before you knew why they really came?”

“I don’t want you to die,” Bruce reminded him, growling it out under his breath. “Not if I can help it.”

“What if you can’t help it? What would you do if you couldn’t stop it?” Jeremiah edged closer. They were almost touching now. It wouldn’t even take another step. One or the other could sway forward just the slightest and they would be pressed chest to chest.

“Stop it, Jeremiah.”

Jeremiah closed the distance, but he curved forward, preventing the very contact Bruce had only just been anticipating. “What would you do if you had to watch me die by someone else’s hands?”

A snarl ripped from Bruce’s throat. He twisted his hands into the fancy lapels of Jeremiah’s jacket and shoved him up against the concrete wall of the building next to them. “I am not here to entertain you!” He let go but shove Jeremiah back into the wall once more, just to drive his point home. “And you and I both know that when you die, it will be your own fault.”

Reverent. There was no better way to describe the blissed out expression on Jeremiah’s face, focused up on Bruce in his rage. He looked as though he might fall to his knees if Bruce let go and took a step back. Jeremiah lifted a hand. Where it brushed across his cheek, the bright green leather of his glove was as soft as any pair Bruce had ever owned. Rage drained away as quickly as it had boiled over. Bruce leaned into the touch with a flutter of his eyes. So many of the touches Bruce'd had lately were tainted by violence. Even this one.

“Why are you always doing this?” he asked, feeling tired. 

Bruce closed his eyes when Jeremiah pressed his forehead to Bruce’s temple. Jeremiah’s nose nudged his cheek. Jeremiah’s breath wafted across his skin. So close, but there were still inches of space between their bodies. He wanted to lean in, drown in the consummation of their first hug.

“I know it hurts,” Jeremiah soothed. He caressed Bruce with a hand down the length of his back. “I know. It won’t hurt forever though.”

“Will you stop?”

“Never,” Jeremiah promised. 

He kissed Bruce’s cheek. Bruce felt his heart shatter. Relief and dread entwined in the empty chasm it left behind. The idea that Jeremiah would be digging around in his mind until the day one of them died, maybe even longer, was surprising only in the way it comforted him. In some way, it didn’t matter where he went or what he did, Jeremiah would always be there in his head, digging and scraping for more. Jeremiah was right, though, it might hurt now but it wouldn’t hurt forever. If only because one day he would come to crave the feeling.

“Thank you.” It was a barely whispered prayer given to the space between Jeremiah’s neck and shoulder. Bruce pulled away, letting his hands fall to his sides. A firm grip on the collar of his shirt stopped him. 

Jeremiah stared at him, his lips falling open. He licked the bottom one, a quick darting move that could barely be seen in the dark. His lips were still rough, chapped from his weeks in the cistern. Bruce wanted to feel them heal under his own. Over time.

"Don’t," Bruce croaked. "Jeremiah, don't." A command spoken like a plea, he couldn’t be sure it would even penetrate Jeremiah’s concentration. 

Jeremiah blinked, a slow lowering of his eyelashes and hummed. "I believe you have work to do, my dear." He opened his pale eyes. "And that army draws near."

As if to illustrate that point, a smattering of gunfire erupted nearby. Bruce jerked his head to trace the sound. Not far, but still a few blocks. 

"Come on, we have to move." He used his grip on Jeremiah’s lapel to drag him forward into a brisk jog, sliding around to his shoulder when they matched pace, and dropping it altogether when crossed the street and entered the plaza at the base of the tower. 

Unlocking the door only took a moment while Jeremiah watched the street behind them. No motion, no lights, and only distant sounds of combat. Even those faint sounds faded to nothing as the door swung shut behind them and they stepped onto the marble floor of the Wayne Enterprises lobby.

Police reports of the night Jeremiah had tried to create his maze had left a detailed account of where each bomb was placed. No doubt each location had been thoroughly studied and analyzed to ensure that the building would fall exactly where Jeremiah wanted it to. Demolitions may not have been his professional expertise, but he wouldn’t leave something so critical to chance.

So upon entering, Bruce made for the exact spot the bomb squad described in the report, right beside a column with a picture of Thomas and Martha Wayne.

He paused. 

Memories echoed in his mind. Memories of this building, playing in this very lobby while his father talked with the employees who stopped him on their way to the elevator. He remembers sitting on drafting stools while some of the best scientists his father employed explained what mitochondria were. His mother rubbing dust off his cheek while she oversaw preparations for the next charity fundraiser. 

Jeremiah said nothing while Bruce looked at the portrait and continued his silence when Bruce finally pulled the core from the bag. He pressed the base against the marble cladding and the powerful magnets clamped into the steel and concrete within. He let got and the steady blue glow lit them both up.

It started to buzz as the already charged core began drawing excess energy from the surroundings without a place to store or discharge it.

Red.

He ran and so did Jeremiah. They were across the street and halfway down the block when the explosion knocked them off their feet. A rumble shuddered up through the ground, punctuated by the sharp snaps of windows breaking.

Behind them, Wayne Enterprises fell.

"I have to get back to the GCPD." Bruce slapped Jeremiah’s shoulder to snap him out of whatever poetic stupor he'd slipped into, watching the future someone other than him had laid out for Bruce crumble to the ground. 

Jeremiah climbed to his feet. "It won't take long before they find a way around," he pointed out. 

"That's why I have to get back!"

"So you can die in a meaningless standoff with Ms. Walker and her army?"

"If I die, it'll be because I chose to stand and fight for my city." Bruce whirled and pointed to the column of smoke blocking out the moon. "I'll sacrifice whatever I have to."

He turned to leave whether Jeremiah followed or not. A heavy blow sent him flying and only years of practice with Alfred had him rolling and protecting his head.

"Bruce Wayne," a sweetly mechanized voice mocked. "I am impressed. You have destroyed Wayne Enterprises to stop the military. It will not stop me."

Eduardo Dorrance, Bane. 

Bruce swallowed the lump in his throat, eyes flicking to Jeremiah. His pale skin and green gloves were the only things that gave him away in the dark but Bane wasn't paying Jeremiah any attention regardless. 

"I don't suppose you'd go warn the GCPD?" he panted.

"I think not," Jeremiah said coolly. He circled Bane in tandem with Bruce, but where Bruce’s hands were up in defense, Jeremiah’s were tucked behind his back. He tilted his chin, eyeing Bane with obvious curiosity. "That is a fascinating mechanism you wear. What purpose does it serve?"

Bane turned to Jeremiah. "It makes me stronger than you can possibly imagine."

"I doubt it."

"I have read your file, Jeremiah Valeska. It is surprisingly short for one so accomplished. There is much you could do in service to something greater than yourself."

Jeremiah grinned, turning feral as he squared off in front of Bane and drew the soldier's full attention onto himself. "I agree," he breathed. 

A flick of Jeremiah’s eyebrow and Bruce launched into motion, kicking at the back of Bane's knee, collapsing one leg and driving a force blow down on the back of his head. It glanced off plastic and metal. Bane reached back and pulled Bruce over like a rag doll. Rolling aside at the last minute saved his skull from being smashed in. 

Jeremiah feinted and dodged without really posing a threat but distracting Bane enough for Bruce to get close enough to land a few solid kicks against his core and thighs. He might as well have kicked a bus.

Bane swung an arm and knocked Bruce down again. The breath knocked from his lungs, he could only gasp and force his shocked and aching limbs to push him back up. Bane was bearing down on him.

"You shouldn't have hurt Alfred," Bruce taunted to buy a moment.

"Collateral damage," Bane dismissed.

A flash of lime green was the only warning as Jeremiah flung himself onto Bane's back. It was a stupid ploy, more like something Bruce would do. Flipped forward and spun, Jeremiah was caught in a chokehold.

Bane crowed, "I'm glad you'll be here to see me kill your friend."

Bruce growled, beginning to see red at the careful flash of fear that Jeremiah allowed him to see. "Let him go."

"In war, there are no attachments. Only then can you fight without your hands tied." 

Bane circled Jeremiah’s throat. Only one twist and Jeremiah would no longer be his or anyone's problem. The thought ought to have comforted. He ought to allow Bane to twist and free him of Jeremiah’s obsessive manipulations. The idea churned his stomach and he couldn’t let it happen.

Jeremiah clutched at Bane's shoulders but he couldn’t move a mountain. He looked up, and smiled into the cruel mask obscuring Bane's face. "It's funny," he panted. "I quite agree with you again. But there are a few attachments you, yourself, could stand to be rid of."

Bane snarled, "What might those be?"

Jermiah jerked his arm down. Three small white hoses popped loose and the device around Bane began to hiss. A kind of mist started to surround him. The giant began to thrash, stumbling around in the middle of the street while fumbling blindly with the loose tubes.

Bruce darted forward one more time, just long enough to attach the cloaking device to Bane's armor. When he pulled away, he pulled Jeremiah away too.

"What was that?"

"A Wayne Enterprises cloaking device," Bruce explained. "It was scrapped because it attracted certain winged mammals."

Behind them, a fluttering of wings and high-pitched squeaks built into crescendo. Bats poured out of the sewers in a massive, shifting cloud that engulfed Eduardo Dorrance right in the middle of the street.

Bane fled, taking the bats with him. 

Bruce ran too, Jeremiah hot on his heels, not wanting to linger in case Bane lost the bats or fixed his mask. They wouldn’t be so lucky a second time. Bane certainly would not underestimate Jeremiah again. He was forced to slow back down to a walk, his ribs protesting every jolting footstep and deep breath. Bane had gotten him good once or twice.

The moment he slowed, Jeremiah shuffled him back onto the sidewalk and into a shadowed alcove under a fire escape. It was Bruce’s turn to get pinned up against the building, Jeremiah pressed against the entire length of him. His breath was warm on the skin of Bruce’s cheek. 

"I thought you were beautiful in the light of my generator," Jeremiah said. "But there is nothing I'd like more than to see you like this again, swathed in a cloud of creatures dark and fearful."

Bruce swallowed, opened his mouth, and then closed it again. He couldn’t find any words. None came to mind with the way Jeremiah leaned in close and let his lips brush skin the time. No words came to mind except for 'closer' and some of its synonyms. 

"Jeremiah…"

There was no more room in his mouth for words when all the space was occupied by Jeremiah’s lips. And his tongue. Oh Christ, that was his tongue!

Bruce opened under the onslaught, parting his lips and accepting the intrusion. Acceptance morphed swiftly into enthusiastic consent and by the time the shock of it wore off, it had already become active participation. Jeremiah was not the most skilled kisser Bruce had met but he was far and away the most enthusiastic. He attacked Bruce’s mouth like he needed it to survive, like if he didn't take as much of it as he could while he had the chance, he might starve when they finally broke apart.

Shoving back up against Jerome, Bruce licked his way into his mouth. He chased Jeremiah’s quick tongue and bit his lip when he failed to catch it.

They parted, each panting for breath.

Bruce opened his mouth again and again said nothing. This time there were too many words clawing their way through his brain in a panic. Reminders of who this was, demands for explanation, and even desperate pleas for more. He reeled Jeremiah back in and started the next kiss himself. He shoved his way past Jeremiah’s eagerly parted lips and explored across the ridges of his hard palette. He kept Jeremiah tight against his own body with a hand on Jeremiah’s neck and hip. Even through layers of clothing, he could feel Jeremiah start to respond physically.

Jeremiah Valeska was getting hard while grinding his hips against Bruce Wayne, kissing him like he wanted to crawl inside to live. The press would have a field day if they even got a whiff of this.

Pulling back, Jeremiah slipped his hand between their hips. Bruce’s dick twitched at the wriggling, impatient jerks of his hand as he tugged open Bruce’s pants.

“I will never forget this night,” Jeremiah whispered against his lips before trailing his mouth down Bruce’s neck. He nipped and sucked at the visible skin before nosing underneath the turtleneck. His long fingers felt cold against the heated skin of his cock, still warm in the confines of his underwear. 

Jeremiah tightened his hand before moving along the length. “On nights a long time from now, when you are angry with me, I will relive this night in excruciating detail," Jeremiah promised.

"Which parts?" Bruce panted, desperate to know but unsure why. Why did he care which parts of all this Jeremiah’s sick mind would latch onto? He wasn’t the one who would want to relive this, when it was over.

Jeremiah kept a steady pace on Bruce, even as his eyelashes fluttered and he seemed to lose outward focus on the world. His eyes glazed over. "I'm going to remember your coat and your confidence as you walked these dangerous streets alone and unafraid."

Bruce shook his head and canted his hips into the frustratingly precise pace. "I wasn't alone. You were watching me from the shadows."

Jeremiah leaned forward and bared his teeth in a smile more like a challenge. "Did you know I was there, Bruce?"

Bruce shivered, realizing his mistake too late. The only thing more damning than being unafraid of Gotham’s overrun streets was being unafraid of Jeremiah stalking him from the shadows of those same streets. What did it say about him that he was losing his fear of Jeremiah? "I didn't, not for sure," Bruce deflected, licking his lips. 

"You suspected," Jeremiah hissed. His hand tightened to the point of being painful. 

Bruce arched his back and whined. Jeremiah eased, but didn’t let go. "The way your skin glowed in the light of my generator as you let it charge within your parents' building will be with me until my mind is taken from my skull. That we were able to share that moment will be among my most treasured memories."

His grip turned into a loving caress despite the fact that any attention paid to Bruce’s erection was an afterthought to the attention paid to the rest of him. He started toying with Bruce then, dancing his fingers along the length, tapping at him, thumbing the leaking head and spreading Bruce’s pre-come around. 

Jeremiah breathed hot, moist breath onto Bruce’s cheek. He continued, "That resigned but determined clench of your jaw. The way your plush lips shape around my name when you're irritated with me. The way you smell of sweat and dust and me." To avail himself of that final fact, Jeremiah ducked his head to the crook off Bruce’s neck and inhaled deeply. It tickled slightly but Bruce could only gasp and turn into it.

Jeremiah nosed up Bruce’s throat, over his jaw, and into the curls behind Bruce’s ear. "Till the end of me, I shall hear the way you gasp my name, begging me to stop before you lose control."

"I'm not going to beg," Bruce claimed, his cheeks flaming.

Jeremiah kissed his cheek and rumbled happily, deep in his chest. "You will," he reassured with a chaste and loving caress. "But don't worry. When you do, I won't stop," he murmured against the shell of Bruce’s ear. 

His hand sped up in tandem with Bruce’s breathing. 

"I will bring you to the edge of your control, you will lose, and I will remain with you through it all. I will help you find the pieces and I will watch over you as you put them back together."

"J-" Bruce cut himself off. He would rather choke on his own tongue than plead with Jeremiah right now. He'd rather cut off his own ears than take comfort in what he was hearing. But he did take comfort. He fucking did. And if Jeremiah only followed through with half the promises he'd made so far…

"Jeremiah!" It burst out of him with a growl, upset and overwhelmed by his own thoughts, the blood pounding in his ears and the throbbing of his dick.

Jeremiah hushed him, the gentle kiss on Bruce’s crown at odds with the lurid twist of his wrist that swirled his palm across the head of Bruce’s cock. "I won't stop,"Jeremiah promised. "I won't leave."

He lowered another kiss, this one on Bruce’s mouth. "I will always love you, Bruce," he whispered.

Crying out in pain and pleasure, Bruce came. He clenched his hands down on Jeremiah’s biceps, screwed his eyes shut, and shook. He shook until his underwear became a sticky wet mess and then he curled into Jeremiah’s chest and trembled. He breathed Jeremiah in, the scent of sweat, gunoil, and even the faint smell of graphite. 

It took several long moments for his heart to stop beating in his throat, even longer to gather himself enough to even lift his head off Jeremiah’s chest.. He caught Jeremiah sucking on his own fingers, eyes closed in bliss. 

"I want to taste you on my tongue forever," Jeremiah said happily.

Bruce's stomach lurched. What had he just allowed? 

Jeremiah’s obsession was dangerous. Jeremiah was dangerous. Their agreement didn’t change that. The closer Bruce let him get, the more Jeremiah would want. What would happen when he wanted more than Bruce could give, would give? What would happen to all the people Bruce actually cared about when Jeremiah learned that Bruce wasn't capable of loving him in the same obsessive, destructive way?

What would happen to Bruce when he realized that he could?

Bruce shoved Jeremiah away, zipping up his pants despite the discomfort. He walked away without saying another word. Whether it was the uncharacteristic lack of demands on Bruce’s part or the look in his eyes, Jeremiah neither protested nor followed. And despite Jeremiah’s promise to never stop or leave, Bruce was left alone to return to the GCPD in turmoil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possible Dubious Consent: While giving Bruce a handjob, Jeremiah tells Bruce that he'll never stop, not even if Bruce begs him to. Although it happens during a sexual situation, it's not really Jeremiah's intention for it to be a sexual sentiment. It's more of an over-arching promise that he won't let Bruce push him away.
> 
> Of course... Bruce then proceeds to have a minor drop afterwards and pushes Jeremiah away. I'm certain Jeremiah won't let that stand forever.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Bruce has come to some conclusions and must explain them to his boyfriend.

Bruce pulled away from the solid connection of Alfred’s hug, feeling numb and hollowed out. This had been a long time coming. Every incident, every injury to Alfred, Selina, even Gordon carved a little bit of his heart out. It was so much more than just Jerome or Jeremiah. It was bigger than Bane. Like Ra’s al Ghul, it seemed an eternal plague that was fixated on him and, by extension, Gotham.

He parted from Alfred and left the hanger. The jet was idling, waiting for him. 

It was time to become something new, something dangerous, something capable of protecting Gotham from Bruce Wayne and everyone who would try to destroy it through him.

Bruce climbed the stairs and nodded at the copilot, who moved in to pull the stairs up and seal the door. He settled into a seat with a view towards the hangar, forcing himself to witness his city drifting further away as the jet began to taxi.

“How touching.”

Bruce clenched a fist against his armrest.

A glass dangled from one of Jeremiah’s hands. He had clearly raided the liquor cabinet while he waited.. It wasn't the pretentious glass of sherry he'd held during their last visit to Wayne Manor but a short, wide-mouthed glass filled with some sort of brown liquor. 

"You're leaving," Jeremiah observed stiffly. He looked sour, unhappy. 

"I am."

"Why?"

Another question. Bruce was tired and raw. The idea of answering another one of Jeremiah’s probing questions was unbearable. Jeremiah was looking for a person who did not yet exist within the shell of a person who became less distinct every day. Bruce didn’t think he could tolerate Jeremiah digging around in the open wound of his dying boyhood self.

"Because you're drinking my favorite brand of whiskey," Bruce deflected with a hard edge to his voice. It was just a guess as to what was in the glass, but clearly a good one by the way Jeremiah’s eyes widened in surprise and dismay. 

"You're leaving… because of me?"

Bruce sighed. He hadn’t meant to wound Jeremiah quite that badly, especially because it wasn’t entirely wrong. He was leaving because of Jeremiah in a way. 

"Why didn't you pick a bourbon?" Bruce asked. "It used to be your favorite. That's what you stocked the decanter in your bunker with. Why drink something you know I prefer against your own desires?" The liquor cabinet on any jet Bruce used was well stocked with a variety of beverages for whatever friends or business partners he might bring on board. Even if he didn’t have Jeremiah’s particular brand, he certainly had something just as good.

Jeremiah looked into the glass of whiskey and seemingly considered the question seriously. The plane turned onto the runway and paused. Jeremiah stood and crossed the aisle until he lowered himself into the seat opposite Bruce. It was too far for Jeremiah to touch him, but it gave him an unobstructed view of every expression that flashed across Bruce’s face.

The plane jolted into motion again. Yellow lights flashed by the window. Bruce was pressed back against the cushions by rapid acceleration. Jeremiah swayed forward under the same force.

"I want to know you, Bruce. In every way possible."

"So you drink the same thing? Eat my favorite childhood meal? Take your coffee the same way?" Yeah, Gordon had told him about that one, only commenting on Jeremiah’s audacity of Jeremiah asking for coffee at the time. He hadn’t yet made the connection since Bruce didn't typically drink station house coffee. Not that it really mattered. Jeremiah was obsessed with Bruce Wayne.

"Why shouldn't I?" Jeremiah asked, curious but not offended, “if it brings me closer to you?”

Bruce watched his city fall away in front of him, past the plexiglass window. "I'm not sure the person who liked all those things even exists anymore," Bruce confessed weakly. His gaze was drawn inexorably back to Jeremiah. 

Jeremiah was watching him with absolute focus, eyes locked and unmoving save to catalog every microexpression that twitched beneath Bruce’s facade. He missed nothing but he understood so little. He had no idea who Bruce was. That's why he was still looking for it in the history of Bruce’s preferences.

No one knew who Bruce was. Alfred was learning to see him as a man, but there was still a part that saw Bruce as a child, a son. Gordon saw him as a civilian to be protected. Even Selina, who had the best idea, couldn't fully understand him and his desire to help people at his own expense. Jeremiah saw him, but he didn't understand any better than Selina and unlike he and Selina, he and Jeremiah didn’t have years of history and shared experiences to fall back on. So Jeremiah filled in the missing gaps with assumptions and childhood anecdotes and pretended he had the whole picture. Not even Bruce had the whole picture. 

Jeremiah was at least learning not to assume, Bruce thought, evidenced by the way he asked more questions and made fewer statements. Their little back and forth had more than one benefit. Proving the point, Jeremiah asked, "Is that why you're leaving?"

Bruce nodded, not doing Jeremiah the discourtesy of looking away and instead maintaining eye contact despite his own discomfort. "The person I used to be doesn't exist anymore, but that’s all anyone in Gotham will ever see. I need to leave Gotham so I can learn who I am now."

"No," Jeremiah countered. He pulled at the fingertips of one gloved hand, pulled the navy blue leather from it. He set one and then the other on the armrest.

Bruce bristled, ready to defend himself. 

Jeremiah hummed and unbuttoned his jacket. "You need to leave Gotham so you can learn to be the person Gotham needs. You need to leave because Gotham will not allow you to kill the boy that it remembers."

"Kill?" Bruce asked, feeling weak. 

"The day I destroyed the clock tower, I killed the version of myself that everyone in Gotham thought they knew and they were finally able to see me as I truly was. I tried to help you do the same."

Perhaps in his own, twisted way, Jeremiah did understand what Bruce was going through.

Jeremiah was out of his seat and seated astride Bruce’s lap in the blink of an eye. He was a heavy and comforting weight across his thighs. Up close, his face looked more like skin and bone and less like porcelain, with pores and stubble visible. His eyes were trained on Bruce’s, fevered and hot.

"I could taste his blood on your hands from the moment we met." He dipped his chin in affirmation of his own claim. "Bruce Wayne was the media's darling, a resilient but fragile victim of evil intent. But the young man who walked into my bunker, saw my value, inspired me to face Jerome, he was no victim. You were not the Bruce Wayne that Gotham thought it knew. I could tell. I resolved then and there to remake you, see you reborn as you were meant to be." He flicked out his pointed tongue and drug it across Bruce’s lips. They tingled in its absence when it withdrew.

Bruce gripped Jeremiah’s chin. The skin went dark gray where it indented around his unforgiving fingertips. “You don’t get to remake me,” he growled.

Eyelashes fluttered and Jeremiah practically swooned. “I’ve already begun,” he drawled with a growing smile on his blood-red lips.

"Friends don't manipulate each other like this, Jeremiah, " Bruce warned.

Jeremiah rolled his eyes. "Friends manipulate one another more than anybody else." He shifted, tilting his hips forward and pushing his rapidly stiffening cock against Bruce’s stomach. "Besides," he wheezed, obsessive and nearly drooling, "Aren’t we so much more than friends?"

Bruce studied him. This was the most dangerous part of Jeremiah. Not his intelligence, his ambition, or even his insanity. His insatiable appetite for more would be the thing that would eventually leave the world around them barren. Bruce had known that this would happen, that he would give Jeremiah an opening and the man would take more and more. Maybe Jeremiah would take from Bruce until there was nothing left.

But Jeremiah could have all of Bruce if it meant something of Gotham remained.

"Best friends," Bruce confirmed. It was nothing short of a vow, uttered between the two of them. He pulled Jeremiah forward, opened his mouth and sucked on Jeremiah’s tongue.

They would never have a friendship that other people would recognize as such. In truth, it would always be less than real friends and go so much further than friendship ever could. But there was no word for what they could become and hearing Bruce’s declaration of friendship made Jeremiah so incandescently happy.

Bruce sucked on Jeremiah’s tongue, palming his ass and thighs, for as long as Jeremiah could tolerate being silenced. When Jeremiah could no longer stand the way words jammed up in the back of his throat, he pulled free. "My very best friend," he cooed, delighted at the implicit agreement in the way Bruce squeezed his hard thigh muscles. "I have waited a lifetime to hear such words on your lips. And they taste better than I could have ever imagined."

Jeremiah licked into Bruce’s mouth again, this time taking control. His shoulders rolled back and without a noise of communication, Bruce pushed his suit jacket off. It fell to the floor but there were still more layers underneath.

"Did you imagine this?" Bruce asked. He got distracted by the way the leather of Jeremiah’s gun holster folded the fabric around his shoulders and showed off their broad strength. The loaded gun nestled next to Jeremiah’s ribcage. Bruce didn’t bother with it. It was unnecessary here but Jeremiah would likely never go unarmed again. 

"No," Jeremiah answered breathlessly. "Not even in my wildest imaginings could I have entertained this as a possibility." He stared at Bruce’s mouth. There was no doubt which part their friendship had previously escaped him.

"And now?" Bruce purred. He pulled the straps of Jeremiah’s holster and encouraged the man to slip it off. The gun was a heavy, solid weight at the end of it. Bruce lowered it to the floor, Jeremiah wouldn’t be needing it for a while.

Jeremiah sucked in a harsh breath and shifted his weight again. "I will likely be unable to stop." he rocked back and placed a foot on the floor, then the other before lifting his weight and withdrawing. 

Bruce followed, shrugging off his jacket. He was suffocating under his layers. He let the jacket occupy his now vacant seat.

Jeremiah stepped in closer. With his broad shoulders and narrow hips accentuated by his waistcoat, Jeremiah cut a very powerful and dangerous figure. Bruce ought to have felt nervous but he had never felt more in control as he took off that waistcoat and settled his hands on Jeremiah’s hips. 

"And you?” Jeremiah breathed. “Did you ever imagine this, Bruce?"

"No."

"And now?"

"Now I don't have to imagine," Bruce pointed out.

"And tomorrow?" 

"Tomorrow, I don't want to imagine what you might do to me. I want to remember what you've already done to me."

Jeremiah blazed. He attacked Bruce with the same fervor he'd been unable to control after their fight with Bane. He pulled at Bruce’s sweater so violently that the fabric got caught around his chin and ears. Bruce laughed when he broke free, hair now awry. The laughter only crazed Jeremiah further. Jeremiah ushered him back and bore him down onto the couch along the opposite side of the fuselage. 

Jeremiah stood back. Shirt untucked, chest heaving, his pale green irises had been reduced to a delicate ring around his dilated pupils. He seemed to be memorizing the sight of Bruce, hair and clothing disheveled, laid back and waiting. He lingered for only a moment before falling onto Bruce. 

"Where will you go?" Jeremiah asked in between sucking marks on Bruce’s jaw while Bruce practically ripped the man’s cufflinks free. 

"Like I'd tell you," Bruce snapped, eyeing yet another layer of clothing when the shirt parted to reveal a form-fitting tank top. Jeremiah’s arms were just as impressive bared as they were framed by the shoulder holster. 

Jeremiah rolled to one side just enough to make room for Bruce’s hands unbuckling his belt. "Come now darling," he teased, "You know I'll worry over you if you don't tell me."

Bruce bared his teeth in a grin. "I know." He wanted all of Jeremiah’s attention on him, regardless of proximity. 

Jeremiah narrowed his eyes. He reached behind his back and pulled a switchblade free. The blade sprung up and locked in place with a click. Bruce raised an eyebrow as if to ask 'what are you going to do with that?' He certainly wasn't afraid of it. If Jeremiah wanted him dead, he'd be trying a whole lot harder than all of this.

Jeremiah straddled him again, resting his ass firmly across Bruce’s hips. His weight pushed down on Bruce’s erection. The pressure was good, but it wasn’t nearly enough. He tried to move Jeremiah’s hips with hands but they were knocked off course. Jeremiah leaned forward without lifting his ass or giving Bruce any friction or relief.

Bruce growled. Jeremiah reprimanded him by tapping the flat of his blade against Bruce’s nose. Bruce blinked in surprise. 

"Do you want me to worry? Is that it?" Jeremiah mused, actually petting Bruce’s cheek with the edge of his knife. It was audible, even past their labored breathing, they way it scraped down from his cheekbone. Not a single knick or scratch though. 

"Of course I do." Bruce sucked in a full breath. "I need to give you the right incentive to remember me.”

Jeremiah hissed and sat upright again, a frown across his face. "I will not forget you. How could you say that?" Hurt contorted the frown into a tragic, heartbreaking manipulation that was also entirely heartfelt. 

Bruce rubbed a thumb over Jeremiah’s cheekbone and diverted to his lips at the end. The skin wasn't chapped anymore. He had been taking care of himself in the weeks leading up to their reunification ceremony. He was soft, his hair and skin both conditioned and hydrated.

"You wouldn't forget me, but you would forget our deal."

"I wouldn’t," Jeremiah lied.

Bruce laughed. "You would. But that's ok. I have a plan."

Intrigue and glee seemed to wipe away every other feeling as though they had never occurred to him in the first place. The only thing it did not erase was his arousal because his erection only got harder. "Really?" Jeremiah asked, feverish. "Are you going to tell me what that plan is?"

"No." Bruce's answering grin was smug, so sue him. After answering all of Jeremiah’s questions, no matter how emotional, Bruce was fucking delighted to keep something to himself for a few hours.

Jeremiah was torn between the need to probe for more information and the need to pursue the demands of the body. For once, the body won. He dragged the tip of his knife down the center of Bruce’s chest. The sharp point caught on the woven fabric of his thermal undershirt and pulled strands loose. When it reached his waist, Jeremiah tucked it under the hem and pressed cold, flat steel to his vulnerable belly. 

"Would you like to hear my plan, Bruce? It's my best one yet."

"I'll be the judge of that." He tried not to breathe too heavily and disrupt the blade. Any shift might have it digging in point first or slicing him open.

"First, I'm going to break you open." His eyes flashed, wild, down to the hidden knife, like the fabric might unravel and show him his own work. He turned the knife and bit into that fabric. Fibers broke open one after another from the hem to his throat. There, it got caught on the seam around the neck. Jeremiah braced the fabric and the knife sliced through the neckline too. The ruined shirt fell open.

Bruce licked his lips. He was very nearly broken open already. The movement caught Jeremiah’s eyes and he fixated on Bruce’s mouth again. Without looking, he jammed the knife blade first into the seat cushion beside Bruce’s head.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, skating his hands down Bruce’s chest. His eyes were practically glowing. "Imagine. Imagine if my crazy brother had succeeded in his bizarre fantasies… I never would have seen you like this, coming undone under my hand. I should have killed him when I had the chance.” When the last word slurred and Jeremiah’s eyes grew unfocused, it seemed Bruce would lose him for the foreseeable future, until he had worked through the rising madness.

“He’s not here,” Bruce reminded him. “He’s dead and you’re here. With me.”

A flutter of eyelashes and Jeremiah was back in the present looking down at Bruce with a fond smile. “My very best friend,” he confirmed sweetly.

His hands spread out across Bruce’s narrow chest, covering his nipples and spanning from side to side. He tweaked one and grinned wider. Leaning forward, he took one between his teeth. A frisson of pain like pleasure sparked out from there. 

“I’m going to reduce you to pieces,” Jeremiah said and on his lips the threat sounded like the sweetest promise.

“Stop talking about it and do it already,” Bruce groused, tangling a hand in dyed dark green hair and yanking him forward. 

Jeremiah whined at the violence of having his hair pulled and squirmed. His hips, his legs, his stomach and his arms all moved with such unpredictable fervor that it was difficult to keep track of everything. But that was the essence of who Jeremiah was. His mouth followed suite, jerking across nerve endings on his throat and chest. He was muttering under his breath the entire time, not loud enough to hear but enough to feel.

Bruce dug his fingers into Jeremiah’s shoulders and dragged his nails up the back of his neck and through his hair. Jeremiah tilted his face up, a bright pink staining his cheeks. Bruce’s ministrations had broken up Jeremiah’s hair products and his hair was beginning to go a bit wild. Bruce squeezed his eyes shut at the press of a hand to his dick. It was hot and so, so good. It was actually better this time, too. Better than the alley. Bruce could feel every movement for its own worth, rather than just an afterthought of emotional manipulation. 

"Take it off," Bruce growled. He tugged on the tank top, hauling it up and off with only the barest compliance from Jeremiah. He sat up and scrambled to pop the button on his pants. Jeremiah smeared his lips across Bruce’s face but let him work.

"We won't be interrupted, will we darling?"

Bruce flicked his eyes up at the closed door to the cockpit. He shouldn't feel a thrill knowing that two people technically within his employ could open a door and see him naked and pinned under Jeremiah. "They won't come out here until we've landed," he reassured the man who had brought Gotham to his knees.

"Good," Jeremiah growled, taking his pants and underwear off at last before yanking Bruce’s down to his ankles. Jeremiah stared at the bulge in Bruce’s black boxer briefs. "It might ruin the mood if I had to kill them. No one gets to see you like this except me, right?" When Bruce didn’t answer right away, Jeremiah made panicked eye contact. "Right?" he demanded.

The years stretched out in front of him in their terrifying and shadowed length. A promise like this made to Jeremiah wasn’t the same as the same promise made to anyone else. He swallowed and said, "You're the only one I want right now, Jeremiah. No one will affect me the way you do. Ever."

Jeremiah licked his lips. “One day,” he said, “We're going to do this again. Only then I’m going to take you. I’m going to take you completely when I sit on your cock.”

Bruce groaned as the image flooded his mind. Jeremiah’s typically cool skin would be so hot, clenching around him. His cool expression would be a distant memory. There was nothing he would enjoy more than having the entirety of a shattered Bruce Wayne focused on him and him alone. With Jeremiah sitting astride his thighs with his cock up Jeremiah’s ass, Jeremiah would have Bruce’s undivided attention. Even now, with just the fantasy on his lips, he had Bruce’s undivided attention.

Jeremiah peeled Bruce’s briefs down, letting his cock spring free. It barely had time to register the cool air before Jeremiah covered it with his worshipful face. He nuzzled and licked from the public hair to the tip. "I love your dick, Bruce. I knew I would. There isn't a single part of you that I won't claim for my own, but this will quickly become one of my favorites. I'm going to take it now, just a little. I'm going to suck you dry."

"Not if you don't stop talking!" Bruce complained in frustration. He choked off a shout when Jeremiah engulfed him entirely. His cheeks blazed with the embarrassing knowledge that the pilots could hear him. Jeremiah clamped a hand across his mouth, eyes glinting with mischievous glee. It wasn’t for propriety’s sake that he quieted Bruce. No, it was another tease, a reminder that Jeremiah ruined Bruce’s control and Jeremiah had to control him instead.

“When I take you completely, you will scream my name. And when you’re done,” Jeremiah gasped, pulling up but laying tucking both hands around him. It was nearly painful but too good to call a stop. Jeremiah leaned down again and nosed at the head. He licked the precome that dribbled from the tip. “When I have taken all I can from you, you will take all of me in return.”

Bruce gasped and clenched, his hands, his thighs, straining to hold off just a little longer.

“You will be mine. And I will be yours.”

He crashed over the edge with that promise. On this jet, flying away from his home, from his friends and family, he clung to the one person he could never pull himself away from. No matter how hard he tried, Jeremiah would never, ever let him go. Jeremiah would never, ever stop loving him. And as he spilled on Jeremiah’s fist, he felt lost, grounded only by the solid weight pinning his hips down. 

Jeremiah flattened his tongue and lapped up every drop of come that splattered across his stomach or clung to his shaft. He licked and sucked until every bit of it was lifted from skin and filed away in his memory. He lavished attention on Bruce’s spent, soft penis until the fading arousal turned it from pleasure to pain.

“Please. Jeremiah-”

“What is it? What do you need from me, Bruce? Tell me what I can give you.” 

‘What only I can give you’ was heard but remained blessedly unsaid. Bruce was already going to choke on his own desperate shame, he didn’t need that added on. “Come here,” he ordered, pulling on Jeremiah’s hips and thighs, rather than his hair, urging Jeremiah to shuffle forward until his knees dented the cushions by Bruce’s head and his thighs closed off the rest of the world. Bruce turned his face into one and trailed his nose through red hair. 

Jeremiah wasn’t breathing. His chest was still and his mouth hung open. He stared down at Bruce and Bruce actually blushed. He could only imagine the sight he must present right now, lax from coming and ready to suck Jeremiah’s cock for no other reason than that he needed to. Despite his stupor, Jeremiah managed to shift his cock forward until it was nudging at Bruce’s lips. Bruce opened and took Jeremiah in the way that Jeremiah had taken him in, just a little bit. 

He sucked in a surprised, nearly panicked breath at the weight of it on his tongue. It was good though. Everything was closed off except for this, Bruce could close his eyes, train his ears on Jeremiah’s now escalating breath, and just focus on every shift and twitch of the cock filling his mouth. Jeremiah’s balls tapped lightly at his chin with every shallow thrust and Jeremiah himself was so lovingly gentle about it all that a tear escaped from the corner of one eye. 

Their position wasn’t right for Jeremiah to lick salt drop off his skin like he’d licked up his come, but the way he zeroed in on it was clear nonetheless. He settled for swiping it up with a fingertip and popping it into his mouth. “One day I will drink these from your cheeks,” he purred. “You are my everything, Bruce. I will take everything. I will give everything.” 

Bruce pursed his lips and sucked harder in response. He swirled his tongue around the head and when the vein against his lower lip began to throb and tremble, he knew he was about to get what had been promised. Jeremiah stared at him as he came, eyes never blinking or straying from where his cock disappeared between Bruce’s lips. Bruce took what he was given and swallowed it down. It didn’t fill him with rapturous joy the way it seemed to fill Jeremiah, but he didn’t mind it.

Jeremiah lingered there with his soft cock pressed against Bruce’s cheek. Bruce didn’t complain. It wasn't nearly as demeaning as he might have thought. With humid air heavy in the confined space between Jeremiah’s, Bruce felt… he felt safe. It didn’t matter if he fought, or ran, or broke down completely. Jeremiah had him.

He didn't love Jeremiah the way Jeremiah loved him (if Jeremiah was even capable of love), but even that didn't seem to matter all that much. Bruce’s flat out hatred hadn't even seemed to matter. 

His panic and doubt from a few weeks ago was gone. He wasn't afraid that Jeremiah would remake him into a monster without his consent. By leaving now, on the cusp of realization, Bruce could change himself. He could decide what kind of monster he became, if he was to become a monster at all. Jeremiah even seemed happy for him to do it, even if it meant doing it alone.

Jeremiah eased back and slumped to one side. The knife embedded in the cushion stood upright between their faces. Bruce yanked it free and dropped it over the edge of the couch behind. Jeremiah pulled him onto his side and tucked them around one another. 

"You better have a very good plan, my love. I do not wish to be parted from you, now or ever. I will begin to hunt you the moment you are gone from my sight."

Bruce hummed, unconcerned by the threat. Sleep was dragging at his eyelids.

The fact of the matter was, Jeremiah was perfectly capable of spending years on end nurturing a single unhealthy obsession and waiting for that obsession to reenter his life without causing too much damage in the meantime. He'd waited for Jerome for fifteen years, eight of which were spent in an underground bunker. He just needed puzzles and projects to keep busy with.

"You can't hide from me forever, Bruce," Jeremiah reminded him softly against one ear. "I'll find you and bring you home. I won't be able to help myself." His hand traveled soothingly up and down Bruce’s bare back.

"I know," Bruce murmured. "You'll never stop, not even when I beg you to."

"Correct." Jeremiah sounded like he might want to start all over again. Bruce couldn’t have that, he was fucking exhausted and just wanted to sleep curled up into Jeremiah’s chest for a few hours before they had to part ways.

"But I'm not asking you to stop."

"Aren’t you? You insist that we must be parted from one another even though I have seen you through so many transformative works already. I can come with you."

"Of course not, I'm not stupid," Bruce complained, forcing his eyes open for the sole purpose of glaring at Jeremiah. He was the last person who should be underestimating Bruce. Bruce could forgive him, though. He was irrational when he thought he might lose Bruce. They were going to have to work on that. "I have work for you to do while I'm gone."

"Work?" Jeremiah parroted, curiosity sparking. He sharpened. "You just want free engineering on the new Wayne Enterprises."

A laugh, genuine and content. "Among other things."

"What other things?" Jeremiah was beginning to grow impatient with not knowing. 

Bruce sat up and leaned over Jeremiah. He traced Jeremiah’s swollen, red lips with the pad of his thumb. He kissed them, light and chaste with an audible smack when he withdrew. "I do currently have a pile of rubble where my house used to be."

Jeremiah gasped. "You want me to work on Wayne Manor?"

"I want you to work on our home. "

Ours.

With Alfred and Jeremiah working on it while Bruce was gone, it really would end up as a home for the both of them. He'd have to give Jeremiah some money for a new identity, with his own and Xander Wilde's both useless. 

"Just try to keep the bombs to a minimum," he chided.

Jeremiah was definitely ready to go another round now. His erection back with a vengeance, pressed against Bruce’s hip. 

Jeremiah could wait, though. He would wait.

Bruce settled down with a yawn and the last thing he remembered before falling asleep was the lightweight fabric of a shirt being pulled across his bare back, covering him and protecting him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of the most difficult chapters to write for the entire story. The first half was actually the second or third scene that I had ever written and so almost all of it had to be scrapped due to the progress they made in their relationship. For some reason, it was incredibly difficult to get into Bruce's head for this one. Hopefully I managed.


End file.
